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UNITED STATES BUREAU OF EDUCATION, 

DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR. 

Entry Catalogue Number 


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Ada Merton 




BY 

FRANCIS J. FINN, S. J., 


Author of Tom Playfair,''^ Percy Wynnf Harry 
DeCy ” “ Claude Lightfoot, ’ ’ New Faces and Old, ’ ’ etc. 


Fourth Edition. 


St. Louis, Mo., 1898. 
Published by B. HERDER, 

17 South Broadway. 




y 


■f 



Copyright, 1896, by Jos. Gummersbach. 



C 4 
4 4 4 



— BECKTOLD— 

PRINTING AND BOOK MFG. CO. 
ST. LOUIS, MO.* 


Although it be a history 

Homely and rude, I will relate the same 

For the delight of a few natural hearts. 


— Wordsworth. 












ADA MERTON. 


CHAPTER I. 


And now what are we? unbelievers both, 
Calm and complete, determinately fixed 
To-day, to-morrow and for ever. 


— Robert Browning. 


BOUT three clock of a spring after- 



m noon, in one of the mansions which 
not so many years ago made Grand Avenue 
the finest residence street of St. Louis, a 
lady was seated in a luxuriously furnished 
boudoir. She was a queenly woman. Her 
forehead, low and broad, and her deep dark 
eyes wore an expression which denoted 
thought and study. Her face and clear 
complexion would lead the casual observer 
to judge her younger than she really was. 
This youthfulness of feature, however, was 
not at its best on the present occasion ; for 
the nervous play of her fingers as she 
sat reading, and, now and then a sharp 


6 


Ada Merton. 


turn of the head indicated that she was dis- 
turbed and ill at ease. At every unwonted 
sound from without, she would rise quickly, 
and gaze eagerly out of the open window. 
But each time her look of disappointment 
deepened, and with the suspicion of a sigh 
she would resume her volume. She had 
been reading for some few minutes without 
interruption, when the sound of the bells 
from the Redemptorist church hard by 
broke upon the stillness of the afternoon. 

^^0, those bells, those bells, those mean- 
ingless bells! she exclaimed. 

Were they meaningless? The wish is 
often father to the thought. At all events, 
there was a time when to her those bells 
were full of meaning ; a time when at their 
call she hastened away cheerily in rain or 
shine, through mist or snow, to worship a 
God whose existence she now denied. She 
•was wiser to day ; so was Eve after partaking 
of the forbidden fruit. She was unhappier, 
too, for her added knowledge ; so was Eve 
for hers. And yet why should she be un- 
happy? Her husband was as loving and 
attentive as heart could desire, and her only 
child — her little daughter Ada! Surely, 


Ada Merton. 


7 


nature herself was divine that she could pro- 
duce a being so lovely, so complete. With 
such a husband and such a daughter, there 
should be a heaven upon earth. And yet — 
The opening of the gate below distracted 
her from her reverie, and, as she hastened 
to the window, her face lighted up with joy 
at sight of Mr. John Merton, her husband. 
Quickly descending the stairs, she met him 
in the vestibule, kissed him with affectionate 
welcome, and helped him off with his over- 
coat. 

^Tt is Spring outside, and it is Spring 
within too, Mary. Your welcome is as 
bright as the flowers. It is such a rehef 
from the busy, gruff, money-making people 
on ^ Change.^ But where is my little Ada?’^ 
^^She has not come home yet, John. In- 
deed, I feel somewhat worried about her; 
for school should have let out over half an 
hour ago.^^ 

^Wou know what care killed, Mary,^’ said 
Mr. Merton, as they went up the stairs; 
^deave her alone, and shedl come home, like 
little Bo Peep who lost her sheep, you know. ^ ’ 
^^Of course, it is foolish for me to worry, 
John ; but when either you or Ada do not 


8 


Ada Merton. 


come back when I am expecting you, I can- 
not but feel alarmed. I suffer from a sort 
of waking night-mare, and cannot keep 
myself from imagining all manner of dread- 
ful things.’' 

^^When you feel that way, my dear, you 
should read some humorous book, or go 
down stairs and tell the cook your honest 
opinion of the last meal, or fatigue your 
mind by reading, let us say, the ^Duchess.’ ” 

These suggestions delivered in an off- 
hand, careless manner brought a smile upon 
Mrs. Merton’s face, and the husband, satis- 
fied with the cheering effect of his remarks, 
took an easy chair, and composed himself 
to look over the evening paper. 

He was nearing forty years of age. His 
face while masculine was singularly regular, 
and his well-trimmed moustache, his fash- 
ionable apparel and his studied yet easy 
carriage made it clear that he was by no 
means indifferent to his personal appearance. 

^^Mary,” he resumed after a hasty survey 
of the paper’s headlines, ^ H’ve been thinking 
seriously about Ada aU day. Now really, 
my dear, is it not about time for us to take 
her in hand ourselves, and open her eyes to 


Ada Merton. 


9 


the truth? She is now going on eleven, and, 
I beheve, quite intelligent enough to under- 
stand our position, if it only be put before 
her in the proper light/ ^ 

Although Mrs. Merton continued to smile, 
a slight shade of sadness clouded her face, as 
she replied, too, John, have been think- 
ing on this very point for some time past ; 
and still I do not see my way to taking 
your view of the ease. Ada is young, and 
apt to be led rather by authority than by 
reason, as is proper in all innocent little 
children. And besides, let us practice what 
we preach. We both believe in liberty of 
thought ; now why not let the child follow 
her own honest convictions! Suppose she 
continue going to the sisters^ school for a 
year or two more. Even then she will not 
be over thirteen, and at that time we can 
easily appeal to her reason, and show her 
that not everything taught by the good 
sisters is to be bhndly believed. 

^^But why not send her to a non-Catholic, 
or better a sectarian school!’^ urged Mr. 
Merton. should prefer that she learn 
Protestant doctrine.^’ 

^^That remark is scarcely worthy of you. 


10 


Ada Merton. 


my dear/^ answered Mrs. Merton with a 
slight touch of scorn in her tones. ^^Learn 
Protestant doctrine! I fear she would be- 
come gray before learning what Protestant 
doctrine really is — or is n’t. As you have 
often said, everything that the sects believe 
is to be referred back to our — to the Cath- 
olic Church, as to the fountain-head. You 
may smile, John, but if I did believe in God, 
as was the case one year ago, I would live 
as a Catholic; for it is the only religion 
that seems to be at all consistent.” 

‘^See here, Mary,” said Mr. Merton, 
straightening himseK in his chair, and 
gazing fixedly into her eyes, ^ ^please do not 
talk in that fashion. One would think you 
were falling back.” 

^^No: I burnt my ships long ago. I had 
what they call ^faith’ once, and thought 
then that I should never lose it. But now 
even in the face of death, I would never 
think of appealing to a God, or returning 
to a religion which I put aside under your 
guidance and teaching. Not only do I no 
longer beheve, but I no longer even wish 
to believe.” 


Ada Merton. 11 

Mr. Merton arose with a smile of triumph, 
and drew his wife to him. 

^ ^Bravely said, my dear one,’^ he ex- 
claimed. ^^What you have said rings true; 
and your looks were in accord with your 
words. When I married you, Mary, I re- 
solved at first, and kept my resolve for some 
time, not to interfere with your faith. I 
went on the good old-fashioned principle of 
letting well enough alone. But as I came 
to love you more and more, I felt jealous 
that you should have any reserves in your 
love for me, giving half to me, and half to 
an imaginary Grod. After the birth of our 
little Ada, this feeling bothered me more 
and more. You cannot imagine, I sincerely 
beheve, how it vexed and annoyed me when 
you would leave my side of a morning to go 
and attend early Mass: and so, after five or 
six years of silent objection, I resolved that 
it was about time to open your eyes. But 
it wasn^t quite so easy a task.’’ 

^^No, indeed,” assented Mrs. Merton, 
thought you would see the truth just 
as soon as I put it to you, whereas for a 
long time you fought against me with all 
the subtilty of a Jesuit : And I was very glad 


12 


Ada Merton. 


at the end of three long years that at last 
my words and arguments were beginning to 
make an impression on you. But now that 
you have declared you no longer even wish 
to believe, I think that my victory is 
crowned. Henceforth, I shall never doubt 
you.^’ 

Mrs. Merton’s face flushed mth pleasure. 
Words of praise are ever welcome; but 
when they come from those who are highest 
and dearest in our estimation, they receive 
an added value in the love of the giver. 
Mr. Merton was not slow to observe the 
effect of his words, and, resolved on gaining 
his point, continued : — 

^^And by the way, Mary, there’s one 
thing yet I think you ought to attend to 
without further delay. Why not let Ada 
know that you are no longer a Catholic?” 

Mrs. Merton was about to reply but 
checked herself, as the patter of a light 
footstep was heard upon the stairs. 


CHAPTER II. 


Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax ; 
Her cheek as the dawn of day ; 

Her bosom white as the hawthorn buds 
That ope in the month of May. 


— Longfellow. 


DA Merton — for she it was — resembled 



ilL her mother as the rose-bud resembles 
the rose. She was prettily attired, in a 
fashion which manifested a fond mother^ s 
care and taste at once. Ada^s beautiful 
face was made winning by her blue eyes. 
These windows of the soul revealed to all 
who gazed into their innocent depths the 
lovely history of a short, but pure, holy, 
and joyful life; of a shining soul beautiful 
still with the unsullied robe of baptism, 
and enriched by the precious graces which 
come at the call and prayer of Christas well- 
beloved little ones. In every feature dwelt 
that look of happiness which springs from 
innocence that has no dark memories in the 
past, and that sees no black shadows in the 
future. It was a look of happiness which 
slipped so easily into the radiant smile, 


(IS) 


14 


Ada Merton. 


that it were difficult to distinguish the point 
of transition. No one could come into con- 
tact with Ada without loving the child *, no 
one could love her without loving at the 
same time the sweet innocence which made 
and kept her what she was. 

On entering the room, she kissed her 
father with eager affection, then turned to 
her mother, who folded her to her bosom 
in the good old-fashioned way which all 
fond mothers, I doubt not, have kept up 
by a natural tradition since the days of 
mother Eve. 

^^You are late, my httle pet,’’ cried Mrs. 
Merton. 

^^Yes, mamma*, but Sister Felicitas asked 
me to stay after school, and I’ve got such 
good news. — 0 ! I am sure you will hardly 
believe it.” 

‘^What is it, darling?” asked the mother 
with much sympathetic interest in her voice, 
as she drew Ada to her side, and gently 
stroked the child’s fair tresses. 

Ada smiled, shook her head with an air 
of mystery, and pointed to Mr. Merton 
who, apparently unconscious of this bit of 
by-play, was again reading the paper. 


Ada Merton, 


15 


afraid papa won^t like to hear it/’ 
she said in a whisper. 

^^Just imagine that I’m down town,” 
broke in the father, who had not been so 
engrossed with the paper as Ada had sup- 
posed. ^^Count me out for this time, Ada, 
and tell mamma what you please. Even if 
I do happen to overhear it, I promise not 
to have it pubhshed.” 

^^Now, papa, there you are making fun 
of me, as if anyone would care about pub- 
lishing anything I have to say. But, papa, 
I shall tell you too, only I hope you won’t 
be angry.” 

^^If you wish it, Ada, I will count a 
hundred before I say a word. Go on now, 
with your news. Shall I count?” 

Ada with a puzzled expression cast an 
enquiring eye upon her father, who met her 
gaze with a face of the utmost gravity; but 
judging from her mother’s laugh that he 
was quizzing her, she went on : 

^^Well, first of all, after class this after- 
noon Sister Felicitas examined me in my 
catechism ; and I did n’t miss but less than 
half of a question in half an hour.” 

^^0, that’s your news is it?” cried the 


16 


Ada Merton. 


father. ^^Well, I congratulate my little girl 
most heartily. To have a fine memory is a 
great advantage, and the learning of the 
catechism word for word, while it is an 
excellent test of the memory, is also one of 
the best exercises for developing it.^^ 

Mrs. Merton, as her husband spoke, was 
watching Ada^s countenance. 

^^That is not your news, Ada,^^ she said, 
^ ^though it is very good news too. What 
else, dearr^ 

^^Well, mamma. Sister Felicitas was very 
much pleased, and told me that I might join 
the class that is preparing for first Com- 
munion.^^ 

^^The deuce! muttered Mr. Merton, 
throwing aside his paper with a start and 
a frown; ^ ^ this is news. And he bit his 
lip, and began pulling at his mustache. 

^^But, Ada,’^ said the mother, whose face 
to the eager eyes of the child seemed disap- 
pointingly cold, ^^you are much too young: 
you must wait till you are twelve. ^Birdie, 
wait a httle longer, till the httle wings are 
stronger.^ She added the quotation from 
the poet in a playful tone ; for she saw how 
pained was the child at her first words. 


Ada Merton, 17 

But Ada was not to be diverted into play- 
fulness on this subject. 

^^0 mamma! she said with voice so 
appeahng and face so pitiful, that Mrs. 
Merton could not withstand her silent elo- 
quence. 

^^Well, darling, I can^t disappoint you: 
have your own way.^’ 

Ada’s face glowed with pleasure. 

^ ^ Stuff — nonsense — superstition — hum- 
bug,” muttered in an almost inaudible growl 
the husband from the sofa. 

^^See here, papa,” said Ada with her 
beautiful smile and with her little fore-finger 
raised in an admonitory manner, ^^you just 
keep quiet for a while, and I’ll pray and 
pray till you beheve just exactly the same 
as mamma and I. Won’t he, mamma*?” 

^^Yes, dearest: I hope we shall all believe 
the same thing soon.” 

The conversation was interrupted by a 
knock at the door, followed by the entrance 
of the negro porter, who in addition to his 
other duties had the proud charge of escort- 
ing Ada to and from school. He was an 
old servant in the family, as was indeed 
very evident. 


18 


Ada Merton. 


With a gesture of greeting to his master 
and mistress which was a compromise be- 
tween a nod and a bow, Bob straightened 
up, put on a very serious look which lasted 
for but a moment, and then burst into the 
happiest of smiles. 

What’s the matter. Bob?” asked Mr. 
Merton. ^^Have you good news, too?” 

She’s done tole you,” chuckled Bob, 
rubbing his hands. ^^Mebbe she ain’t a 
smart little one. O no! Now, Massah, ain’ 
she done tole you bof?” 

^^Told us what?” asked the master of the 
house, who, brought up in the slave days 
under Bob’s personal care, allowed the old 
negro many hberties. 

<^Why, dat she’s a-gwine fur to make her 
fust Communion. She done tole me all 
about it, cornin’ heah from school. An’ 
she’s de happies’ little gal in de whole city of 
St. Louis. Bless her heart, I’se willin fer to 
bet dat ef she had a nice par o’ wings on her, 
she’d make just as lubly an angel as you 
can cotch flyin’ ’roun’ de golden street.” 

Ada laughed, and Bob gazed at her with 
serio-comical indignation. Mr. Merton was 
amused. 


Ada Merton. 


19 


queried Mr. Merton quizzingly, 
^^you believe that angels have wings, do 
you?^^ 

^^Cose I does,^^ answered the negro with 
energy and respectful indignation . ^ ^ I ^ se no 
cognostic like some people I knows, who 
don^ blieve in nuffin ’cept what dey sees. 
I^se got rehgion ; an^ I tell you what, Massa 
Mutton, you^se gwine to git lef^ some o’ 
dese fine days, sho’s de Lawd made little 
apples. As de good book says, ^you mus’ 
be a lubber ob de Lawd, or you nebber git 
to hebben when yo’ die.’ ” Bob emphasized 
the quotation by setting it to a peculiar 
nasal but musical monotone, and rolhng 
the whites of his eyes in a manner peculiar 
to gentlemen of his color when unusually 
devout. 

Quite a respectable homily. Bob,” re- 
turned his master. ^^But is this all you 
came to see me about?” 

^^Da’s a fac’ ; I kem mighty neah fergitten 
to ax yo’ ef you want de bay bosses or de 
Oder par hitched up.” 

^^Take the bays. Bob.” 

^^En I clean forgot about de new ha’ness. 
It has jist come. Yo’ like to see it?” 


20 


Ada Merton. 


^^Ah! has it! You bring your real news 
last, as a woman puts the point of her letter 
into the postscript. — Well, my dears, if 
you excuse me for a minute or two, I shall 
go to see what sort of taste Bob has in the 
choice of harness.’^ And Mr. Merton fol- 
lowed by his sable spiritual admonitor left 
the room. No sooner was the door closed 
upon them, then Ada turned to her mother 
with a look of wistfulness and trouble. 

‘A wonder, mamma, whether it is not my 
sins that keep papa from knowing and 
loving Grod!’^ 

^^Not yours, dearest, answered Mrs. 
Merton, drawing the child close, and fond- 
hng her with hungry tenderness. 

hope not,’’ pursued Ada*, ^^for I am 
trying my very best to do nothing wrong. 
I say a pair of beads every day for poor 
papa, and during the consecration at Mass, 
I always think of him.” 

^^That is so like my httle girl,” said the 
mother still fondling the child, and strugg- 
hng hard against an uneasy feeling, which 
often came upon her during such colloquies 
with Ada *, — a feeling all the more dis- 
tressing that she was unable to analyse it. 


Ada Merton, 


21 


^^Your father and I are always very happy 
when we see how much you love us. But 
tell me, my little darling, do you think you 
would love me and papa still more, if you 
did not know that there was a God^^ 
Ada^s smile left her, and a look of dismay 
came upon her mobile countenance. 

^^Why, mamma, that is nonsense, is n^t it? 
It sounds so strange ! And just a while ago 
when I told you about my being allowed to 
make my first Communion, you almost 
scared me, mamma ; and I felt like shiver- 
ing.^^ 

scare you, Ada!^^ 

^^Yes, mamma: I expected you to be so 
glad, and instead there was a sort of a look 
on your face — I don^t know what it was, 
— but it was not glad ; and I felt so sur- 
prised and sorry. I could not help thinking 
that you were angry with me.^^ 

^^With you, my pet? No, indeed, Ada; I 
was not, I could not be angry with you.^’ 
^^Well, then, mamma, you were vexed 
that I was going to make my first Com- 
munion this year.^^ 

^^Oh, but that is quite another thing, dear. 
You are right, Ada. I don^t like it. You 


22 


Ada Merton, 


see, I think that if you waited another year, 
you would he older, — and often it is better 
to wait a year or two than go to Communion 
without knowing well and clearly what you 
are doing/’ 

^^But, mamma, do you think that I am 
too young to know what I am doing!” 

Mrs. Merton paused before replying. She 
tried to be truthful with her child, and, 
with the single exception of her change of 
faith, she was wont to answer every ques- 
tion frankly. 

^‘Well, my dear, many people hold that 
it is not good for most children to go to 
Holy Communion till they are over twelve. 
Then they are more developed, and more in 
earnest.” 

^^And was that your only reason for not 
being glad, mamma; just because you 
wanted me to be better prepared!” 

— no. But I do not care to tell my 
little girl the other reason : she is too young 
to understand it. But you must n’t try to 
be a saint all at once. ’ ’ Mrs. Merton uttered 
this last remark in such a way that it was 
hard to say whether she spoke in jest or 
earnest. It was meant to be tentative. 


Ada Merton, 


23 


^ ^Of course, I^m going to try to be a saint ! 
we all must try to be that. Sister Felicitas 
said in class the other day that our Lord 
wants every one of us to be saints.’’ 

^ ^Nonsense ! ” — Here Mrs. Merton checked 
herself and added more mildly, suppose 
Sister Fehcitas doesn’t mean everything 
that she says.” 

In spite of herself, Ada could not hide the 
chilling effect which these words had upon 
her. The mother saw that she had scan- 
dalized her child, and involuntarily the ter- 
rible words of Christ denouncing those who 
scandahze His httle ones recurred to her. 

am sure. Mamma,” answered Ada 
recovering herself partially, ^^that you would 
not speak so of Sister Felicitas if you knew 
her. All the girls in our class love her, and 
think she is a real saint. I pray that I may 
become like her.” 

^^Now, now, Ada, you are not thinking 
of becoming a nun, are you?” 

^^0, I don’t think so far off as that,” 
answered Ada dreamily. ^^But all I mean 
is that I’m trying to be good and gentle 
like Sister Felicitas. She often tells us to 
act always as if we saw our guardian angel 


24 


Ada Merton. 


beside us. Don’t you often think of your 
guardian angel, mamma 

^^Why, child, what strange questions you 
ask : of course, I think of him — sometimes. ” 
Mrs. Merton was treading on dangerous 
ground. As she answered, her face flushed, 
and she turned away her eyes. 

^^Do you?” cried Ada with a look of glad- 
ness. ^^So do I often, mamma: and, do you 
know, sometimes it seems to me that, if I 
keep myself free from sin and from all wilful 
faults, Grod may let me see my angel before 
I die.” 

see my angel every day,” rejoined 
Mrs. Merton, playfully yet in full earnest. 
^^For you, my little one, are my dear angel; 
and you, my little one, are always showing 
me the way to heaven.” 

Ada was puzzled. She would have been 
pained had she known what her mother 
meant by the word ^ ^heaven.” That word 
on Mrs. Merton’s lips bore no reference to 
the land beyond. 

“But come, my dear,” added Mrs. Merton. 
“I see the carriage is waiting: let us not 
delay your father.” 


CHAPTER III. 


For even as ruin is wrought by rain, 

Beating hard on the mellowing crops, 
Making the labor of farmers vain. 

Smiting and blighting the barley tops. 

So is wrack in the souls of men 
Wrought by passion, desire and sin. 

c. y, C. 

W HILE the Mertons are driving along 
the fine boulevards of Forest Park, 
then, as now, the chosen driving resort of 
St. Louisans, it will be well for the reader 
to learn something of Mr. and Mrs. Merton ^s 
antecedents. 

John Merton was the son of wealthy 
Catholic parents. As far as they were Cath- 
olic, it was good for John; as far as they 
were wealthy, it was bad. While not pre- 
pared to assert absolutely that wealthy 
parents, because they are wealthy, are a mis- 
fortune to a boy, the present writer humbly 
submits that in the generahty of cases they 
are. In one of his latest stories for boys — 
and may he gladden us all by writing many 

another — Mr. Egan makes the following 
( 26 ) 


26 


Ada Merton, 


remark, which it is well for those having 
care of the young to bear in mind: — ^^When 
a boy has a comfortable home and every- 
body is kind to him, and clothes and food 
and warmth and books seem to come as a 
matter of course, he will probably become 
selfish without knowing it/’ John Merton 
was, at the age of fourteen, light-hearted, 
gay, witty, perfectly good-natured and 
perfectly selfish. His good traits were 
recognized by everyone, but I doubt whether 
any true friend, brushing aside the exterior 
qualities which make many a boy lovely to 
eyes that see not beneath the surface, ever 
endeavored to reveal to the boy his inner 
self ; to show him how he never turned his 
hand, took one thought, formulated a single 
wish, which in some way or other was not 
to turn to his immediate account. On the 
other hand, his parents, as I have said, 
were Cathohc, and, according to the usual 
standard, good Catholics at that. The 
mother was really devout ; she trained her 
boy carefully in his religion and in his 
duties *, and, if she were blind to his defec- 
tive character, let us pardon this fault of 
blindness which loses much of its reproach 


Ada Merton. 


27 


and even takes on a certain sweetness in 
the holy light of a mother^ s tender love. 
She died when John was fifteen, and one 
year later her husband followed her. John’s 
father was a business man first, and a Cath- 
olic second. Accordingly, he left his son 
in the charge of a person who was noted for 
his quahties as a financier. True, the guar- 
dian had no rehgion at all ; but, to the man 
who puts business first, religion second, 
such a consideration, to use his own figure, 
^^does not cut much of a figure.” Shortly 
after the death of his father, John was sent 
to a boarding school. It was fashionable : 
the rest is not written. If along with his 
religious training young Merton had had a 
little manhness, he might have practiced 
his rehgion even in these unhealthy sur- 
roundings. But he had just that amount 
of manliness, which we expect to find in 
people who are thoroughly selfish, and 
thoroughly good-natured. He caUed him- 
self a Catholic, when there was no escaping 
the admisssion — that was the extent of his 
rehgion. Allowed a hberal supply of pocket- 
money, he spent lavishly; so that, very 
soon, he was quite barnacled with friends. 


28 


Ada Merton. 


In a short time, Merton^s freedom extended 
itself even to his conversation. Then, it 
went to his reading. The French novel, 
the infidel pamphlet, hooks free in tone, 
independent of all canons, whether of taste 
or of thought or of logic, — such had now 
become his mental food. We may pass 
over in silence the next two or three years. 
John was perfectly respectable — which, 
being interpreted, means that he dressed 
well, had a good manner, and, as to the 
rest, was not found out. Now a sinful life 
such as he was leading is bound to cloud 
the mind. It is no wonder, then, that he 
soon ceased to entertain any belief in a 
place of eternal torments ; no wonder that 
he soon lost, to all intents and purposes, 
the faith which he had received in baptism, 
and strengthened in the sacraments of his 
church. If there is anything that clouds 
the intellect, dulls it to all that is highest 
and noblest, and crushes into silence and 
insensibility the conscience which once was 
quiveringly delicate, it is the deadly ener- 
vating, baneful fume of impure thoughts. 
To men thus poisoned, however aesthetic 
they may be in regard to sensuous beauty. 


Ada Merton. 


29 


to sight, to sound, to color, to taste, to 
fragrance, yet they cannot rise with their 
wingless thoughts to the super -sensible. 
They remind one of flies in a jar of honey 
— in a sweetness which cannot last, from 
which they cannot rise, which is to be their 
destruction. To men of this kind the high 
and holy doctrine of the Incarnation and 
the Eedemption seem as some childish fairy 
tale. How far John Merton ^s excesses would 
have led him, it is impossible to say, had he 
not, fortunately, conceived a strong love for 
Miss Arden, at that time one of the leading 
debutantes in St. Louis society. It was not 
generally known that he was an infldel. 
Miss Arden had not the least suspicion. 
Hence, after a short period of wooing, he 
succeeded with but small difliculty in gaining 
his suit ; and Miss Arden, without knowing 
aught of the inner life of him to whom she 
was to cleave in sorrow and in joy, in life 
and until death, surrendered herseh blindly 
to be his helpmate for better or for worse. 
These things are done every day. 

Mrs. Merton, at this time, united in her- 
self a strong love for religion, and a strong 
love for the world. They were seemingly 


30 


Ada Merton, 


parallel lines in her character. On the face 
of it, one would think that two such loves 
could not co-exist. But we cannot argue 
against facts. Worldliness and religion 
sometimes go together — they are dangerous 
neighbors, and however parallel they seem to 
be they are likely in the long run to cross each 
other. Then one or the other must give. 

She had always been a devout girl ; but 
like many of her class she had compromised 
with her conscience on the one question of 
worldliness. After the first years of marri- 
age, her husband undertook to inform her 
of his religious views. She was shocked, and 
the revulsion of feeling made her, for a time, 
more devout than ever before. She eagerly 
essayed to convince her husband of his 
errors; but the young infidel, or agnostic, 
as he called himseK, was, to do him justice, 
far better armed on his side of the contro- 
versy than she on hers, and soon silenced 
her strongest arguments. 

Years passed on, and the vantage-ground 
of battle had changed. Merton plied his 
wife with infidel books ; he assembled about 
his table men of culture, but of no belief ; 
he enkindled in his wife, by subtle means. 


Ada Merton, 


31 


the desire of becoming a queen in society. 
His temptations succeeded but too well. 
Mary Merton began to neglect the sacra- 
ments; — the theatre on Saturday night and 
Communion on Sunday morning do not 
appear to have a very natural connection. 
Nor was it long before she arrived at the 
conclusion that, to retain her hold in fashion- 
able circles, Lent could hardly be kept as a 
season of penance. Following this, her 
Easter duties were neglected; and so the 
miserable, worldly woman found herself in 
the same situation as her husband had been 
years before — anxious to believe there was 
no hell. 

Bravely did John Merton come to the 
rescue; and, at the time that our story 
opens, she had been one year an unbeliever. 
In the meantime, httle Ada happily ignorant 
of her mother^ s defection was attending a 
convent school, and growing more and more 
saint-like every day. 

Husband and wife were devotedly attached 
to each other. They had but one life (so 
they beheved) and they would make the 
most of it: they had the actual ^^acre of 
Middlesex,’^ and laughed at the ^^princi- 


32 


Ada Merton. 


pality of Utopia/^ In loving each other 
and seeking each other^s comfort, they had 
staked their happiness. The progress of 
Ada in mind and body was the one other 
grand object of their lives. So far they 
had been happy. Their heaven upon earth 
seemed to be flawless. But since the days 
that men wandered from God and walked 
in their own ways, since the days that the 
peoples of the earth boldly raised the proud 
head of Babel up into the very face of the 
heavens, thousands and millions of erring 
mortals have attempted to build their heaven 
upon this earth, only to hear in the hey-day 
of their joy; 

“The house was builded of the earth, 

And shall fall again to ground.” 


CHAPTER rV. 


“I have at home a flawless diamond ring.” 

“And I a jewel that would grace a king.” 

“Better than both,” there came a third voice mild, 
“I have at home a sinless little child.” 


— Anon. 


More things are wrought by prayer than this 


world dreams of. 


— Tennyson. 


S Ada alighted from the carriage, on 



th^ir return from Forest Park, there 
was a pensive, bewildered, half-frightened 
air about the little child. She could not 
bring herself to dwell upon it, and yet the 
thought would come that her father had 
shocked her. He had spoken more plainly 
than was his wont ; he had openly derided 
practices and beliefs which were most sacred 
to her *, and twist it and turn it as she might, 
she could not interpret favorably her father ^s 
conduct. Her mother, too, though not 
siding with Mr. Merton, had protested so 
faintly as almost to countenance his remarks. 

The poor child loved her parents in- 
tensely; and it is the words of those we 
love which inflict the deepest pain. Some 


(33) 


34 


Ada Merton. 


writers tell us that the heart given to G-od 
is selfish and narrow, cares nothing for 
relatives and friends, and offers all that is 
nearest and dearest on the shrine of eternal 
love. They go on to instance what they 
are pleased to call the proverbial cold- 
ness^ ^ of monks and nuns; and assert that 
by rule a religious is obhged to ^^hate father 
and mother.’^ These assertions are about 
as close to the truth as that of another class 
of writers who insist that as a rule the monk 
or the nun is in religion on account of 
blighted affection. As a matter of fact, 
when we love God as He desires us, we love 
all things else in Him and for Him. The 
most affectionate hearts, the truest souls, 
the noblest fives are to be found under the 
veil of the nun or the habit of the religious. 
^‘As radiancy,’’ says Cardinal Manning, ^fis 
a part of fight, so the love of mankind flows 
in a direct stream from the love of God. In 
the measure in which we love God, in that 
measure we shall have more heart-felt love 
to all that are about us. A father will be a 
better father, and a mother a better mother ; 
son and daughter will be better children; 
they will love each other more, and friends 


Ada Merton. 35 

will love one another more in the measure 
in which they love Grod more/’ 

So Ada in loving her Creator clung all 
the closer to her parents, and the one sorrow 
of her young and gracious hfe was now 
beginning, inasmuch as she could no longer 
disguise from herself the fact that while her 
father openly flouted her most sacred and 
cherished beliefs, her mother repelled the 
child’s confldences with a coldness which 
could not be misunderstood. 

After supper that evening, Mr. and Mrs. 
Merton went out to attend an evening recep- 
tion, leaving Ada to the sohtude of her httle 
room. It was on the same floor as were the 
apartments of her parents, but looking to- 
wards the west so as to command an exten- 
sive view of the beautiful suburbs of the 
city, and away beyond them the green flelds, 
the early corn, and shady forests of the coun- 
try, with here and there a cosy little farm- 
house. The room was beautifully fltted up. 
About the walls hung pictures of our thorn- 
crowned Saviour, his sorrowful Mother, and 
the sweet, virgin-wreathed St. Agnes. Next 
to a book-case fllled with choice volumes, 
many of them written expressly for the 


36 


Ada Merton. 


young, was Ada’s study desk; above which 
was a shrine, blooming and fragrant with 
flowers, in honor of the Sacred Heart. 

Beside the desk was a dainty prie-dieu^ 
upon which lay a silver crucifix — the child’s 
dearest treasure. Kneeling down, and kiss- 
ing the crucifix with tender reverence, Ada 
remained for a few moments in earnest 
prayer. Then rising, she seated herself at 
her desk, and began her studies for the 
following day’s class. The little girl pos- 
sessed fine talent, and (a thing which does 
not always accompany that gift) she loved 
her books. She had been working for over 
an hour, when she was interrupted by a 
knock at the door. 

^^0, is it you, Maggie?” she exclaimed, 
as her maid entered, ^^I’m glad you have 
come; for I was wishing to tell you the 
good news. Sit down.” 

^^The good news, is it?” said Maggie her 
ruddy kind face breaking into a perfect 
sun-burst of smiles. ^^Now, what is it, my 
dear girl?” 

am going to make my first Communion 
next Easter, Maggie.” 

^^Are you, now? Well, sure, I’m delighted 


Ada Merton. 


37 


to hear it, and I’d just like to see any one 
deny it.” Here Maggie, who without pre- 
judice to her honest, kindly nature, might 
be described as a good-natured maid of a 
staccato temperament, looked around with 
momentary asperity to catch the inaudible 
protest of some imaginary opponent. ^ ^ And, 
darling,” she continued, breaking into a 
smile again, ^^how did your father like it!” 

The smile died away from Ada’s face. 

Maggie,” she cried, ‘^he was so vexed, 
and looked displeased all the time we were 
out driving. And I had thought mamma 
would be so glad ; and instead she seemed 
to be put out almost as much as papa.” 

^^Now, was she, alannah?” said Maggie 
soothingly, her honest cherry complexion 
glowing like a cloud of evening in the 
western sky; she’s been reading more of 
that grinning monkey of a French philoso- 
pher, Vulture — or some such carrion, hea- 
thenish name — I suppose. May the divil 
fly away with those infernal books against 
faith — God forgive me for saying of the 
same, and for bringing such an ugly subject 
into this here little room, where there’s a 
sweeter, holier, lovelier little heart, than 


38 


Ada Merton. 


those heathenish writers ever dreamt of, 
since the days they were weaned which was 
a great pity all around, seeing as they should 
never have grown up at all. There now. 
Miss Ada,’^ she concluded, having equally 
expended her breath and her indignation, 
^^IVe said my say out, and I’d hke to see 
anybody unsay it. ” This peroration, begun 
with swelling veins and snapping eyes, was 
no sooner ended than Maggie lapsed into 
her wonted state of unindignant benevolence. 

^^Do you think mamma reads many books 
against faith, Maggie!” and the poor girl’s 
face quivered with pain in fear of the answer. 

^^Do she,” answered Maggie, who, in an 
unusual state of warmth, was wont to be- 
come more and more rudimentary in her 
language, ^^she does be reading them agnos- 
tuck writers all the time; and that grand 
Turk your father — Lord forgive me for 
saying so, but, as far as faith goes, he might 
as weU be a Turk as not, and nobody any 
the wiser — he buys her them books faster 
than she can read ’em. But why are you 
crying, Ada!” 

The child leaned her head upon her old 


Ada Merton, 39 

nurse^s bosom, and for a few moments 
sobbed. 

^Toor, dear, little Ada,^’ said Maggie in 
softened tones, ^dt^s a shame for me to be 
talking the way I do. Instead of cheering 
and consoling the darhng httle girl I learned 
to walk and used to carry about in my arms, 
here I come hke a tattooed Hottentot with 
my cock and bull stories, a-making things 
ten times worse than they are — cheer up, 
allannah, now do — you^re father isn’t half 
as much a Turk as I am.” 

^ ^ Ah, Maggie, it makes me so sad, thinking 
that my father doesn’t love nor care for the 
dear Saviour who died for him ; and mamma, 
too, though she believes, doesn’t seem to 
love God at all.” 

^ ^That’s all true, my darhng, aU the truth, 
and nothing else hut the truth,” Maggie 
returned, with some dim memory of an 
oath she had once heard administered in 
court. ^^But we can pray for them, and if 
we pray enough we’re bound to be heard.” 

^ ^ Yes, Maggie ; but I have prayed so long ; 
day and night I have prayed to the Heart 
that is so full of graces, and yet my prayers 
seem not to be heard.” 


40 


Ada Merton. 


^‘Wait a little, darling. Patience and 
perseverance will bring a snail to Jerusalem. 
And 1^11 pray with you, and we will keep on 
praying till both your pa and your ma be- 
lieve in Grod, and all his holy truths — which 
they will of course sooner or later — and I^d 
like to see anybody say they wouldn^t, now ! ’ ^ 

^^Well, Maggie, we will pray as hard as 
we can. And don’t forget to ask the Infant 
Jesus to keep me from all sin so that when 
he comes to me in holy Communion, he 
may feel perfectly at home. Grood night, 
Maggie.” 

Upon Maggie’s departure, Ada having 
extinguished her hght, walked to her win- 
dow and stood gazing upon the calm and 
clear night. The moon was just appearing 
in the heavens, and a thousand stars were 
performing the magnificent course, from 
which they had never departed, since their 
Creator had said, ^‘Let there be light.” A 
few dark clouds, like wandering spirits, 
were moving along obscuring, here and 
there, the jewelled bosom of the firmament ; 
scarce a sound invaded the stillness of na- 
ture’s repose. And as Ada surveyed the 
heavens, thoughts born of the tranquil 


Ada Merton. 


41 


beauty of the night passed through her 
mind. She wondered whether it was not 
at such a time as this that the fertile plain 
of J udea shone in the hght of glory, and 
the bright angels of the heavenly band 
brought tidings of joy to all the nations; 
whether it is not at such a time as this 
that the same glad spirits still continue, 
though veiled from our eyes, to carry mes- 
sages of love from the throne of Divine 
peace to the troubled hearts of men ; 
whether even now among these myriad 
envoys of heaven there might not be one 
who bore some powerful grace to her hap- 
less parents. Nature to her was an endless 
book of beauty. Every creature of the 
great God raised her soul to Him and His 
imperishable home. Breathing a sigh, she 
turned, after a few moments, to her prie- 
dieUj and earnestly prayed for father and 
mother, who little dreaming of their Ada^s 
vigil, were following their round of pleasure. 
She told her beads ; then recited the Litany 
of the Blessed Virgin — all for her parents. 
Finally, with arms outstretched and unsup- 
ported, she continued her prayers, thinking 
at the same time of Him who for three long 


42 


Ada Merton. 


weary hours prayed in the same position 
upon the Cross. And as she persevered 
in prayer, the moon rose slowly higher in 
the sky, and flecked the room with silver 
bars, and threw a bright mantle of glory 
around the fragile form of the praying 
cMld. 


CHAPTER V. 


Kind gifts to some, kind words to more, 
Kind looks to each and all she gave. 
Which on with them through life they bore, 
And down into their grave. 

— Aubrey De Vere. 

by, my dear, and be sure not to 

VJ be late coming home/^ 

^^Grood by, mamma,’’ answered Ada as, 
kissing her mother, she set off, satchel in 
hand, to school, under the charge of master 
Bob. 

^^Missy Ada,” said Bob when they had 
gained the street, ^^how does it come dat 
some folks is drefful pooah, while odders 
is jist a rollin’ in de lap of luggery?” 

^^Why, Bob, would you like to see one 
person just as rich as another?” 

^^Dat’s jist de way to put it. Missy Ada. 
I’se jist as good as de mos’ white trash wot 
I knows of.” 

^^Never mind. Bob, if you be a good man, 
you’ll be better off in the next world than a 
good many of the ^ white trash.’ ” 

( 43 ) 


44 


Ada Merton. 


^ ^ Well, I is drefful good. I ^spect I habn’t 
done nuffin bad, sence I’se been a- working 
for your pa who am a fuss class inassa, ^cep^ 
he don’t blieve nuffin he can’t see. Why, 
if you go in a rest — rest.” — Here Bob 
paused and made that head-gesture usually 
indicative of jogging the memory. Sudden- 
ly the forgotten word sprang from the 
recesses of his hidden lore hke a verbal 
Minerva. — ^^Ah, into a resturent, ef you 
go into a resturent, you ain’t a gwine to 
see nuffin on de table ’cep’ de castors — ’cos 
de dinnah am in de ketchin. Now it ud 
jest be like your pa to walk out o’ dat res- 
turent, as chockfull o’ emptiness as he kem 
in, ’cos he don’t blieve in no dinner dat he 
can’t see, — Dat,” added Bob in a low, 
mysterious tone, as though he were impart- 
ing a secret of no common value, — ^^dat. 
Missy Ada, is all de doctrine of de cognos- 
tics.” 

^^What is?” asked Ada. 

‘^Why, dat dey don’t blieve nuffin dat 
dey don’t see. But dese matters is too 
perfound fo’ you. Missy Ada, darefore, let’s 
drop him. I’se kine o’ sorry. Missy, we 


Ada Merton, 45 

wont go to school togedder in de nex^ world 
nor eber see each udder. 

^^Why, Bob/’ Ada enquired, her eyes 
brightening with merriment, ^^don’t you 
think I have a chance for heaven?” 

^^Cose; but you goes to de white tr , 

white folks’ hebben; an’ de Lawd will send 
ole Bob among de cullud pussons.” 

^ ^You’re talking nonsense now. Bob. 
How can you believe such things as that?” 

^^Well, you see. Missy Ada, I’se a shoutin 
Meffodis’, an’ hab de right to blieve what I 
hke. Now from wot I hab seen, I’se ’eluded 
dat de Lawd ain’t a gwine to mix people in 
de new Jooslem. You ’member Massa 
Stanley, de grain spekeltater? He done your 
pa out o’ a heap o’ money, an’ robbed lots 
o’ pooah folk. Wen he committed suicide, 
he was wuff a million dollahs, an’ all de big 
folk went to his funral. I was dar, an’ 
when de preacher said dat we was all jussi- 
fied by faith, an’ dat massa Stanley was a 
singin’ G-lory Yallow-looyer wid de angels, 
I says to myself, I says; — ^de Lawd ain’t 
goin’ to make pooah ’spectable niggah man 
’sociate with sech bad men as dat."^ So I’se 


46 


Ada Mertou, 


excluded, Missy Ada, dat cuUud pussons is 
gwine to hab annuder hebben.^^ 

afraid. Bob, that your religion is 
not the right one; but some day, please 
God, you will become a good Catholic/^ 
dunno^. Missy Ada, but what I will. 
I ’clar’ ’fore hebben. Missy, when I sees you 
so good an’ kine to pooah black niggah hke 
me, an’ sees you so good an’ lubbin’ to all 
pooah folks, I jest feels all ober dat your 
’ligion’s de mos’ ’spectable a-goin’.” 

^^Very good. Bob, next Sunday I’m going 
to send you to a priest.” 

^^I’se a willin’. Missy.” 

Up to this point of their talk they had 
been advancing in the direction of the con- 
vent ; but now, they turned aside, and pro- 
ceeded towards a dilapidated hovel, standing 
lone on a large, open lot. 

^Toor Mrs. Eeardon!” said Ada, as they 
drew near the dwelling, ‘^God sends her 
many trials.” 

^^Dat’s a fac’,” answered Bob, wonder 
ef her old man is home. Ef he is, I reckon 
I’ll tech him up a httle.” 

^^NowBob,” said Ada shaking her finger 


Ada Merton, 47 

at him, ^^you musn’t do a thing unless I 
tell you.^’ 

They had reached the threshold, as they 
spoke, and it was' impossible for them not 
to hear the sound of an angry, scolding 
voice within. As Ada knocked, the voice 
ceased, and a dead silence ensued. Not 
waiting for permission to come in, the child 
entered followed by Bob. A sad scene met 
their eyes. Mrs. Eeardon a woman barely 
of middle age, whose hair had been already 
silvered by care and distress, stood by the 
door weeping : on a bed, in one corner of 
the room lay an emaciated boy of eight, his 
flushed cheeks and bright eyes betokening 
fever ; and, supporting himseK by chnging 
to a table, stood the master of the family, 
his beard and hair unkempt, his dress dis- 
ordered and his eyes burning with a light 
common equally to drunkeness and to in- 
sanity. As the new-comers entered the 
room, the httle child smiled with pleasure, 
the woman dried her eyes, while the man 
turned away his bloated face for very shame. 

^^Good day, good day,^^ said Ada with a 
pleasant smile of greeting; ^^you have trou- 
ble this morning, she added in a lower 


48 


Ada Merton. 


tone to Mrs. Eeardon. ^^Poor woman, what 
a pity Mr. Eeardon can’t keep from drink- 
ing.” 

^^Grod help me, Ada, but he was once as 
kind a husband as ever drew the breath of 
life. And now if you look at his miserable 
face you can see no sign of the manly, 
merry fellow he once was.” 

^^Ada!” cried the child from his bed, ^^I’m 
so glad to see you; come here, Ada, and 
tell me another of those beautiful stories.” 

^^And so, G-eordie, you are still ahve 
enough to care about my stories are you? 
Well, now, what shall it be?” 

^^Tell me something more about the 
angels, Ada.” 

The girl thought for a moment, and then 
in a quiet, simple manner repeated to him, 
as she remembered it, one of Father Faber’s 
exquisite Tales of the Angels.” The 
mother stood by listening with no less in- 
terest than her child ; the miserable father, 
still balancing himself by means of the 
chair, heard with growing shame of those 
blessed spirits than whom he had been cre- 
ated a little less ; while master Bob divided 
his attention between bestowing a look of 


Ada Merton. 


49 


compassion upon the boy, lavishing frowns 
upon the master of the house, and lending 
an occasional ear to the story itself. 

^^Now, Greordie,’’ said Ada after the tale 
had been told, ^dt is time for me to go to 
school. But I have something nice for you 
— just the thing for a fever, mamma says.^^ 

Ada took from her satchel two large 
oranges and a slice of cake. The grateful 
boy little knew, though he had been receiv- 
ing such presents daily, that Ada was giving 
him — sacrificing to him — all the palatable 
dainties which Mrs. Merton had fondly des- 
tined for her daughter’s luncheon. 

^^Thank you, Ada, thank you a thousand 
times ; it isn’t so much for the oranges or 
the cake I care; but your kindness,” and 
the child’s eyes, even as he spoke, filled 
with happy tears. 

^^Grod bless you for a good angel,” said 
the mother: ^^and if my prayers can do 
such as you any good, you shall have them, 
and welcome.” 

^ ^Indeed, they will do me good: good 
morning, Greordie; good morning Mrs. 
Reardon.” 

^^Hold on. Missy Ada,” broke in Bob at 


50 


Ada Merton, 


tliis juncture, who felt that he had a duty 
to acquit himself of before society. ^Fore 
you go, I want to impress my Opinion on 
this heah man. Isn^t yo^ ashamed of you- 
sef, sah? What do you mean, by comin^ 
home to de family in sech a condition? 
You^se a bad man, and wants a soberin^ 
up, an^ dis chile’s de man who knows how 
to tend to dat part of de business.” And 
Mr. Bob picked up a convenient bucket of 
water, with the intention of giving its right- 
ful owner the full benefit of the contents. 
But Reardon would not tamely submit to 
this ; he made a rush at master Bob, and 
what would have ensued, it is impossible to 
say, had not Ada interposed her tiny person 
between the two. 

^^Now, Bob,” she said, ^^what did I tell 
you before you came in? It’s a shame for 
men to fight before women.” 

^ ^Berry weU, Missy, it ain’t de right cose to 
f]ght afore women; an’ I’se drefful shamed 
o’ myself. Look heah, you one,” he con- 
tinued addressing his remarks to Reardon, 
^^ef you’se a gwine to git cantankerous 
agin, while I’se around; I’ll — I’ll — spiffi- 
cateyou; and don’t you forgit it.” 


Ada Merton, 


51 


Eeardon, ordinarily bold and fearless, 
was meek as a lamb before the amiable 
child visitor ; and taking no notice of Bob^s 
vituperative eloquence, at length summoned 
courage to speak to the girl. 

^^Grod forgive me. Miss Ada, for being 
the brute I am, with my child lying sick in 
bed, and my wife wasting her very life at 
work. I am worse than a brute. But par- 
don me this time. Miss Ada.’^ 

^^Mr. Eeardon, Ada answered, hope 
that you and I may become great friends 
yet j good morning, now ; and Gleordie, I 
hope you’ll be better to morrow.” With 
these words, Ada left the house: master 
Bob stalked after her, muttering between 
his teeth, and shaking his head fiercely, 
after some time, however, he recovered his 
usual serenity, and his face became about 
as sunshiny as a gentlemen of color’s can 
well become. 

^^Dat’s a berry good woman. Missy Ada.” 

^ ^Indeed she is. Bob; she has many hard 
things to bear in this world ; but the good 
Grod will make up for her troubles in the 
next.” 


52 


Ada Merton, 


fac^ is, Missy Ada, I^se no disjections 
to bein’ in de same hebben as her,” Bob 
continued after a moment’s meditation. 
They bad now reached the convent gate, 
and Bob took his departure. 


CHAPTEE VI. 


Hide not the clouds among, 

Brightest star and fairest, 

Until her song those heavens along 
Between thy wings thou bearest. 

— Aubrey De Vere. 

I sit to night by the fire-light, 

And I look at the glowing flame, 

And I see in the bright red flashes 
A Heart, a Face and a Name. 

— Abram J. Ryan. 

J OHN Merton, the course of whose finan- 
cial affairs had thus far run smooth, 
happened about this period to become en- 
tangled in an unlucky speculation. Often 
of an evening would his wife await for 
hours beyond his ordinary time of returning 
before he came home, jaded and taciturn. 
Instead of accompanying her to the various, 
gay assemblages of society, at which they 
were both so welcome, he would plead busi- 
ness engagements, and absent himself till 
late in the night. On several of these occa- 
sions, Mrs. Merton noticed with distress, 
that he had sought solace in stimulants. 

( 63 ) 


54 


Ada Merton. 


Never had she spoken a reproachful word 
to him ; and so she trembled in silent horror, 
fearing that this perhaps was but the shadow 
of the dark days to come. Was John, the 
cultured society man, the noble, high-souled 
gentleman, the loving husband — was he to 
court the demon of the glass! The thought 
was dreadful *, and, as she sat by the fire- 
side alone, and gazed into the crackhng 
coals, dreadful pictures of broken household 
idols, bhghted hopes, and life-long sorrows 
would project themselves in weird, elfin 
shapes among the glowing embers, or dance 
ghastly, vague, and fantastical upon the 
walls. Her infidel authors were thrown 
aside; and to divert her attention from 
saddening thoughts, she would talk for 
hours to Ada; but the pure girPs holy as- 
pirations were beyond the ken of one who 
had made a heaven of baser and earthier 
materials. 

She was sitting, one evening, with Ada 
beside her, when the child, after looking 
for some time in silence at the fire, suddenly 
said: 

‘^Mamma, do you see any pictures in the 
fire!^’ 


Ada Merton. 


55 


^^Yes, darling/’ answered the mother, 
with a httle shiver, dreadful, horrible pic- 
tures.” 

^^Horrible!” repeated Ada, with a look 
so dreamy and withal so quaint and old- 
fashioned, as to cause Mrs. Merton to start. 
^ ‘Now that’s queer, ” she went on in a musing 
tone, and with an expression strange in one 
of her years; “I see nothing but beautiful 
pictures. There now, I’ve been looking for 
five minutes at the Sacred Heart of Jesus. 
And it’s so real, I can see the Heart just as 
plain ! and the flames of His great love 
coming from it, and burning 0, ever so 
brightly; and I was thinking, mamma, 
how happy that good Nun must have felt 
who used to see our Lord’s real Heart. 
TeU me, now, mamma, do you love the 
Sacred Hearts’ 

The miserable lady of fashion hardly 
knew what answer to make. She, who 
could with dexterity turn off the polished 
compliments of the most pohshed, who 
could converse with learned men on learned 
matters, was time and again, as at the 
present moment, abashed and perplexed by 


56 


Ada Merton. 


the innocence and simplicity of her daugh 
ter^s radiant spirit. 

‘^My love is not so great as yours, Ada.’’ 

^^Well, mamma, I’m going to put my 
picture of the Sacred Heart in your room. 
And when you see it so often in the day, 
I’m sure you will come to love that Heart 
which has loved us so much.” And, in 
pursuance of this design, Ada tripped out 
of the room, returning in a few moments 
with the picture from her dear shrine. Her 
mother, in the meantime, sat gazing gloomily 
at the coals, wondering where John was 
now passing the hours; fearing for the 
condition in which he should come home ; 
imagining a thousand frightful accidents. 

Poor woman! yours is no uncommon 
misery. Throughout the length and breadth 
of our fair land there are thousands of 
wives, who daily wait in fear for him whose 
returning step was once a song of joy to 
their hearts. Their husbands, once good 
and true, have taken to drinking. Little 
do they know, miserable men, what hidden 
tears, what agonizing watches, what pitiful 
prayers their recklessness entails ; little do 


Ada Merton, 


57 


they know with what care the mother keeps 
her children aloof so as not to see the shame 
of him who should he their pride and proud- 
est boast. Grod pardon you, Christian hus- 
bands, you who come home to a once happy 
family with muddled brains ; who cause the 
boy to blush and the girl to weep for their 
father ; and who make the tender hearts of 
Grod^s noble women bleed with a bitterness 
all the more inconsolable, that they are 
powerless to stay the evil. 

Ada, while placing the picture upon the 
mantlepiece, could not but notice the sad- 
ness of her mother. 

^^Whatisthe matter, dear mamma? Don^t 
you love me at all any more? You look so 
sad, and seem to be so sorry about some- 
thing. Do I tire you, mamma? 

^^You tire me, darling!’’ cried Mrs. Mer- 
ton drawing the child to her, and embracing 
her as though fearful of losing her only 
treasure; love you more than everything 
in the world, and could not live without 
you. Indeed I am not sad on your account. 
You are the one sure happiness that I can 
count upon. It is thinking of others that 
saddens me.” 


58 


Ada Merton. 


^^Well, mamma, just to keep you from 
thinking of sad things, 1^11 sing you a song. ’ ’ 

song! Why, Ada, I didn’t know you 
could sing.” 

^^And I didn’t want you to know it,” 
cried Ada, clapping her hands with delight 
at the pleasant surprise she had created. 
^^It is my first song, mamma, and I learned 
it just to please you.” And Ada seating 
herself at the piano, struck a few chords, 
and, with a voice so sweet and touching, 
that the poet whose words she used would 
have declared the singing quite in keeping 
with his own beautiful verses, sang the 
following stanzas: — 

St. Agnes’ Bve. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon ; 

My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 

May my soul follow soon ! 

The shadows of the convent-towers 
Slant down the snowy sward, 

Still creeping with the creeping hours 
That lead me to my Lord ; 

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
As are the frosty skies, 

Or this first snow-drop of the year 
That in my bosom lies. 


Ada Merton. 


59 


As these white robes are soiled and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 

As this pale taper’s earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 

. So shows my soul before the Tamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 

So in my earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 

Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far. 

Thro’ all yon starlight keen. 

Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go ; 

All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strews her lights below. 

And deepens on and up ! the gates 
Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 

The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 

A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride. 

— Tennyson. 

Had there existed a little child in the 
golden days of primitive innocence, she 
would have sung in some such manner. 
There was something more than delightful 
music in the clear, sweet voice of the singer ; 
there breathed through every note, as though 
it were its complement, the sacred love of a 


60 


Ada Merton, 


spotless heart, a heart burning to be united 
with the Spouse. As Ada ceased singing, 
the mother bent down and kissed her. 

^ ^Darling, ’ ^ she said, while tears moistened 
her eyes, ^^your voice recalls the happy, 
happy time of long ago, the time when I 
was young and simple like yourself. But 
now I know so much more — and I’m sorry 
I know it. And yet what have I gained by 
my knowledge? Even now I would part 
with it all for but one sweet hour of old 
times. — But what nonsense I am talking,” 
and Mrs. Merton gave forth the dismal, 
dead echo of merriment — a forced laugh. 
^‘It is old feelings returning in spite of surer 
knowledge. Ada, when you were ” 

A slight noise at the hall-door arrested 
her attention ; and divining, with ‘the quick 
instinct of a woman, who was entering and 
how he was entering, she turned crimson. 
^^Ada,” she whispered, ^^steal quietly to 
bed: it is your father, who is annoyed 
about business matters, and he may be 
vexed at seeing you up so late.” 

Something in her mother’s manner, rather 
than the words, caused Ada to depart with- 
out requesting the customary good-night 


Ada Merton. 


61 


kiss ; and scarcely had she left the room, 
when Mr. Merton came up the stairs tramp- 
ing heavily. The worst fears of his wife 
were realized. His eyes were inflamed ; his 
face discolored ; blood was on his shirt, and 
his clothes were torn, as though he had 
been engaged in a violent struggle. 

Mrs. Merton could scarcely repress a cry 
of terror. 

^^Don^t be afraid, Mary,^^ he said, in a 
tone intended to be reassuring, although in 
truth, it had a stern, hard ring, as if it came 
from a breast that enclosed a chaos of vio- 
lent passions. ^^Don’t be afraid, I — I’m 
all right. But what’s thatV^ and as his eye 
caught the picture of the Sacred Heart, all 
the passions within seemed to awake for 
action. 

Ada’s picture of the Sacred Heart,” 
faltered Mrs. Merton. 

With a dreadful oath, the man seized it, 
crushed it in his hands, threw it on the 
ground, spat on it, stamped on it; then 
burst into a paroxysm of invective against 
all that is sacred. And as he went from 
one blasphemy to another, an account of 
his long absence was supplied in snatches. 


62 


Ada Merton, 


He had lost fifteen thousand dollars that 
day ; he had been basely swindled out of it 
by a smooth-tongued, oily-faced swindler. 
But he had settled the fellow with his good 
arms ; swindlers would now know what it 
was to cheat a gentleman. He finished 
with another fearful outburst of profanity, 
while his horrified wife, checking not with- 
out effort an impulse to give way to tears, 
stood by in silence, asking herself was this 
the beginning of the end. 

Meanwhile, Ada, happily unconscious of 
the dreadful scene, was praying for the 
drunken father and the weeping mother. 
Doubtless, glorious angels hovered about 
her. There was blasphemy in the next 
room; but in this world sanctity and sin 
are next door neighbors, though morally 
they are worlds apart. 


CHAPTER VII. 


The gladsome singing birds of spring, 

The buds upon the tree, 

The sunbeams gay and brightning. 

No more bring joy to me. 

— Anon. 

I will a round unvarnished tale deliver. 

— Shakspeare. 

I T was Palm Sunday, and the sun, seem- 
ingly impressed with the idea that 
Spring, who had long been at odds with 
Winter, had at length obtained her brief 
sceptre over the year, shone down bright 
and genial into the sitting-room of Mr. 
Merton ^s dwelling, lingering about the lady 
of the house, as if importuning her to awaken 
to all the newborn life and beauty of nature. 
But although the gay sunbeams danced their 
quickest measure in and out among the 
furniture, and upon the walls, where they 
seemed to play a lively game of peek-a-boo 
with the pictures; although an innocent 
little bird outside, yielding to appearances, 
carolled out loud and bold, defying, with 

( 63 ) 


64 


Ada Merton. 


bird-like gentleness, hoary winter with all 
his frost and snow; although five or six 
tiny buds on a bush in full view of the 
sitting room nodded complacently in answer 
to the vernal breeze; although, in short, all 
things that spoke to the eye and ear were 
preaching the same joyous text to the lonely 
Mrs. Merton, her spirit was unconscious of 
them all. Her mind was agitated by a 
thousand fears. Truly, her sun of happi- 
ness seemed to be upon the downward slope. 
For the first time since the day of her marr- 
iage, Mr. Merton had left her side on Sunday, 
the day of rest. On rising in the morning 
he had shown signs of impatience, peevish- 
ness, almost of anger. More of his money, 
he said, was in jeopardy: and even on that 
day he must give all his attention to busi- 
ness. 

It is a strange thing — and how often do 
facts show its truth — that men, when, 
after a long career of prosperity, they come 
to face serious trouble, will almost invariably 
take to drink; unless, indeed, they are 
accustomed to lay all their burdens before 
the loving King of Sorrows, who had him- 
self become a man of sorrows for their sake. 


Ada Merton. 


65 


Ada, too, was absent, attending High 
Mass at the Rock Church; and Mrs. Merton 
in her loneliness felt a twinge of jealousy 
against that Cod who could draw her child, 
even for an hour, from her bosom. 

^^In times long since gone,’^ she thought, 
^^my heart in its petty trials and miseries 
could find a sweet, consohng refuge in 
prayer. But alas ! where shall I now turn. 
Who shall sweeten my yoke, and hghten 
my burden? Ah, if there only were a hving 
God beyond man ! If there only were some 
great, glorious spirit who loved me, and 
had power to help me. But no ; my hus- 
band, Ada — these are the loves in which 
my heart must ever endure. And yet, J ohn 
is giving me so much trouble. He who 
once was so devoted, so kind, so affection- 
ate, so cheering, is now changing to a 

Her mind refused to dwell longer on the 
prospect, and with a sigh she resumed the 
reading of a novel that lay upon the table. 

She was not a little surprised, when, of a 
sudden, Maggie stalked into the room, her 
round, red, good-natured face looking for 
the nonce very stern. Time was when 
Maggie could count upon being the sympa- 


66 


Ada Merton, 


thetic hearer and confidante of all Mrs. 
Merton’s troubles; but the last year had 
slowly, almost imperceptibly separated them 
by a wide barrier. As she entered the room, 
it was evident from her compressed lips, and 
from the general awkwardness of her move- 
ments that she had come upon some matter 
of importance. Mrs. Merton laid aside the 
book, and glanced inquiringly at Maggie, 
who, instead of announcing her errand, 
coughed, put one foot forward, then the 
other; finally, with a second cough, she 
wiped her face on her apron, and with a 
quick, jerky movement readjusted her whole 
position. 

^^Well, Maggie,” said Mrs. Merton with 
a smile of encouragement — how sad a smile 
to what it once was! ^^You seem to be in 
trouble.” 

These words offered an outlet for the tor- 
rent of Maggie’s eloquence. 

^^Lord forgive you, Mary Merton; but I 
am in trouble, and all to your account. 
Mary Merton, I’ve been with you since you 
was a httle girl — and a sweet, cheerful 
angel you was — being the pride and joy of 
your father and mother, who were such 


Ada Merton. 


67 


fools (may they rest in peace! amen) as to 
send you off to a gallivantin’ academy, 
where they taught you to use your feet 
much better than your catechism. I’ve 
been with you as a poor servant girl — and 
nobody dasen’t deny it, — and I have loved 
you to that, that I would do anything for 
you and yours. There was a time, too — 
tut 1 tut ! tut 1 — when you would speak to 
me from your heart, as you once did w-wh- 
when I was your darling n-n-nurse, and you 
used to cry on my bosom.” Maggie almost 
broke down at this point, but by a strong 
effort she forced back her feelings, and 
went on more severely than before . ^ ^ There 
was a time, Mary Merton, when you went 
to the same dear, old church with myself, 
and partook of the same bread of hfe as 
myself, — and now what are you*?” Here 
Maggie folded her arms, and looked her 
mistress boldly in the face. 

The miserable lady, at any other time, 
might have responded to this harangue with 
decision; now she was so dispirited that, 
burying her face in her hands, she answered 
in a voice of entreaty rather than of com- 
mand : — 


68 


Ada Merton, 


^ ^Maggie, Maggie, I am unhappy and 
wretched to day. Leave me to myself; go, 
now, leave the room.” 

^^Grod forgive me Ma^am, if I’m saying 
wrong,” answered Maggie without changing 
her position in the least, ^^but leave this 
room I shall not, unless you take me by the 
neck, and shove me out — and I’d like to 
see anybody try that. Yes, Mary Merton, 
you may discharge me — Lord knows it 
would break my heart to be parted from 
you and Ada — but have my say out here 
and now I will, though it rains pitch-forks 
and cats and dogs all the time.” 

Throughout this fugue of rhetoric there 
was apparent, like a harmonizing chord, 
deep, honest, homely love. The mistress, 
too dispirited for petty anger, and yet half 
pleased at the affection displayed, told 
Maggie to go on. 

^Tndeed, Ma’am, I will do that same, 
though the dead should raise. You are un- 
happy, Mrs. Merton, and you know it; and, 
what is more, you have given up our holy 
mother, the Church ” 

^^Who told you that?” cried Mrs. Merton, 
springing to her feet, her eyes glowing with 


Ada Merton. 


69 


excitement. Her apostasy she had held to 
be a secret between herself and her husband. 

^ ^Nobody told me, Mary Merton; but I 
know it, and have known that same for 
weeks. 

Does Ada know it? broke in the lady 
almost fiercely. 

^^Thank God, Mary Merton, her pure, 
suffering little heart has not that grief. But 
I tell you, Mary Merton,^’ — here Maggie 
took a step forward, and as she spoke, her 
voice grew in dignity and earnestness — 
^^But I tell you, Mary Merton, you may 
scold me, you may discharge me, if you 
will ; but I tell you, Mary Merton, that God 
will not wait long. The very holiness of 
your saintly child calls out to God against 
this wretched family; and the day will 
come, and not very far off too, for it takes 
no prophet to see that, when Ada will find 
out your unbelief. 0 Mary Merton ! Mary 
Merton! come back before it is too late.^’ 

Was this a warning from heaven? Were 
the passionate words of an unlettered ser- 
vant-maid the voice of God? Often, indeed, 
the Creator makes use of the simple ones of 
this earth to confound the strong. But as 


70 


Ada Merton. 


these thoughts rose in Mrs. Merton’s mind, 
she quickly banished them as so many evi- 
dences of weak nerves ; blinded by woiidli- 
ness, her mind would allow no idea of a God 
beyond that of the God of pleasures. Mag- 
gie’s words had fallen upon stony ground, 
and in thorny places. The mental conflict 
lasted but for a few moments; and still 
Maggie, with an intuition strengthened by 
love, perceived that her words met with no 
response, and yielding to the warmth of her 
affectionate disappointment she began sobb- 
ing bitterly. 

‘^Maggie, Maggie!” cried the lady, with 
a look of agony that Maggie never forgot, 
‘^don’t, — donH cry before me; I have 
trouble enough already. 

^ ^ Y-y-you have. Ma’am, ’ ’ answered Maggie 
in a burst of sobs, ^^and p-p-p-pray G-God 
you-you may not have more.” With this 
invocation the maid hastened from the room 
to give full vent to her grief in private, 
leaving the unhappy lady to shake off the 
painful feelings thus awakened by burying 
her thoughts in the intricate plot of the tale 
at hand. But even as she read, that one 
sentence seemed to ring in her ears like the 


Ada Merton. 


71 


voice of a troubled spirit; — Mary Mer- 
ton, Mary Merton! come back, come back, 
before it is too late.’^ 


CHAPTER VIII. 


O thou invisible spirit of wine ! if thou 
hast no name to be known by, let us 
call thee devil ! 

— Shakespeare. 

S LOWLY did the hours of that dreary 
Palm Sunday pass away, bringing in 
their train nothing but bitter thoughts, 
and depressing qualms to the lonesome lady. 
At noon, Ada returned, and her presence 
in some degree dissipated the gloom; but 
the quarters even then moved slowly on for 
one foreboding heart, and when two o^ clock, 
the appointed dinner hour, had come, the 
head of the family was still expected. 

There are a thousand natural charms, 
which have a hallowing influence upon 
Sunday. On that day, home is more home, 
and hfe is more a thing of love, and less a 
matter of business: on that day, worldly 
cares are laid aside, and loved ones draw 
nearer one another, endeavoring to show by 
the genial smile and the fond word, that the 
money-buzz of trafiic is stilled for the time 

( 72 ) 


Ada Merton. 


73 


being, and that the high and the holy chords 
of the heart respond to the same gentle influ- 
ences as hallow the dawn of life. Mrs. 
Merton had known these charms for many 
years; but at last they all seemed to be 
rudely dispelled. Every footstep without, 
drew her to the window; but each time, 
she returned with deepened disappointment. 
Ada’s eyes filled with tears of sympathy as 
she noticed her mother’s growing depression. 

^^Come, mamma,” she said, ‘^you’re get- 
ting so troubled: let us not think of papa; 
and just as soon as we forgot all about 
expecting him, he’ll be sure to come. Sup- 
pose I sing to you, mamma.” 

^^Yes, Ada, sing about Agnes again.” 

As if to confirm her words, Ada had not 
fairly begun the tender monologue, when 
the hall door moved upon its hinges. Mrs. 
Merton’s anxious ear caught the sound im- 
mediately, and, without interrupting Ada, 
she hastened to greet her husband. One 
glance sufficed to show her that he was 
irritated, that he had been drinking. 

He was far from being drunk : the con- 
venient, gentlemanly, varnishing title ^ ^tip- 
sy” could, perhaps, be applied to him. As 


74 


Ada Merton. 


the wife^s smile of greeting died away, the 
look of pain which superseded it was not 
unperceived by her husband. His faculties, 
though not in their normal condition, were 
not so dulled but that he could discern her 
suspicion. It galled him to think that his 
wife feared he was in no condition to be 
seen by Ada ; and he resolved on the spot 
that, by force of will-power, he would not 
only refrain from doing or saying anything 
foolish, but comport himself with such dig- 
nity and severity as would show to what an 
extent he had been misjudged. 

^^Well, Mary,^^ he said as he placed his 
hat on the rack, and took a furtive view of 
himself in the glass attached thereto, ^^is 
the dinner ready 

^^Yes, John: it has been long waiting for 
you. Come, let us go to the dining-room.^^ 

Just then Ada appeared, kissed her father, 
and the three proceeded to dinner. As Mrs. 
Merton entered the dining-hall, she made 
Maggie a hasty sign to remove the claret from 
the table. But her husband, whose feelings 
of vexation had made him unusually vigilant, 
noticed the gesture; and as Maggie bore 
away the wine, his brow darkened, and he 


Ada Merton, 


75 


determined to show Mrs. Merton that he 
was not to be dealt with as a child. There- 
fore, appearing not to notice what had taken 
place, he seated himself at the table, and 
for some time kept silence. Then raising 
his eyes, he let them wander around, as if 
in search of something, till finally they 
rested on the face of his wife. 

^^Mary,^’ he said, ^fis there no wine in 
the house 

^‘Yes, dear,^’ she faltered, ^^but you look 
so worn, John, and so jaded that I thought 
you might prefer a good cup of tea. ’ ^ 
want a bottle of claret.’^ 

‘^Yery good, John,^^ answered his wife 
in her most winning manner, ‘^but youTl 
wait till after dinner — to oblige me. And 
then ITl take a little myself with you.^^ 

‘ ^Maggie, he said, totally ignoring his 
wife’s appeal, ^‘bring the wine.” 

On the bottle’s being brought, he filled 
and emptied a glass, and, seeing the visible 
annoyance of his wife, he deliberately drank 
down another. For some time after this 
there was a dead silence. At length Ada, 
wondering what could make her father so 
dull, took upon herself to start a subject. 


76 


Ada Merton, 


‘‘Papa// she said with a smile that seemed 
to have grown in loveliness as had its owner 
in sanctity, “it^s only one week/^ 

“WhaPs only one week?^^ 

“Before my first Communion, papa.’^ 

The guileless child little knew the storm 
she was creating. Even in his soberest 
moments, Mr. Merton found it difficult to 
refrain from scoffing at her spiritual views ; 
but now, in his half maudlin condition, he 
felt very clearly that it was his bounden 
duty to give Ada a few practical instructions 
in modern ethics. 

“Only one week before your first Com- 
munion, ehP^ and as Mr. Merton spoke 
these words in a husky tone, he laid down 
his knife and fork and, in endeavoring to 
preserve a clear-headed appearance, cast a 
look of great severity upon his daughter. 

“Yes, papa,^’ said Ada timidly, abashed 
by her father’s demeanor. 

“Ada,” he continued in a solemn tone, 
“look me in the face.” The poor child in 
her turn laid down her knife and fork, and 
in some astonishment obeyed his injunc- 
tion; while the miserable wife, who had 
vainly been making him signs to discontinue. 


Ada Merton. 


77 


now almost wished that the earth would 
open beneath her feet. 

^‘What^s the matter, papa?^^ asked Ada, 
for the first time in her life affrighted by 
her father’s look. 

^ ^Matter!” he returned with a scowl wor- 
thy of Hepzibah Pyncheon; ^^do you see 
anything the matter with me?” 

Ada was too astonished to reply. 

^^Now, Ada,” he continued, *^1 want you 
to listen to me. Haven’t I always given 
you lots of pretty things — dresses and 
money and — and what not?” 

‘^Yes, papa.” 

^^And haven’t I always been a good, kind 
papa to you?” 

^Hndeed, you have, papa.” 

^^And yet, you are always hurting my 
feelings — your own papa’s feeling. You 
are always speaking of things I don’t like. 
Why down on Change men do everything 
to please your papa, because they know he 
is rich, and powerful and — and — ” 

^ ^ J ohn ! ’ ’ interrupted his wife in a whisper 
full of piteous appeal. 

^^And honorable,” he continued without 


78 


Ada Merton, 


noticing the interruption. ‘ ^ They never say 
anything to hurt his feelings.^’ 

^^Why, papa, I hope you don^t think that 
I try to hurt your feelings. I wouldn^t do 
so for anything.^’ 

^^But you have. Why do you speak of 
first Communion to me. Can’t you talk 
about — eh — more refined things than that. 
In fact, I think, Mary, we had better take her 
away from that convent : she is being trained 
there to hate her father and mother.” 

Ada’s eyes filled with tears at this impu- 
tation; Mrs. Merton fixed an imploring 
look upon her husband. 

^^John,” she said ‘^this is Sunday. Let 
us leave all this till to-morrow.” 

tell you, Mary,” answered the maudlin 
father, bringing his fist down so forcibly on 
the table that his wine glass was upset, 
tell you, Mary, there’s no time like the 
present. Ada, my child, to-morrow I will 
take you with me to find some better 
school.” 

The poor girl was now sobbing bitterly. 
Was this the father who heretofore had 
never spoken to her but with love and kind- 
ness? And her mamma was hurt too, for 


Ada Merton, 79 

she was crying, silently indeed, but with no 
less bitterness for all that. 

With an effort, Mrs. Merton suppressed 
her feelings, and, in a tone intended to 
divert her husband, again addressed him. 

^^Now, dear John, you know I will not 
consent to that. You must remember that 
I too am a Cathohc, though not near so 
good a one as my darling, and I must insist 
upon Ada’s being educated in a Catholic 
school.” 

^^Mary,” he answered, ^dt’s no use de- 
ceiving Ada any longer. To us there is 
nothing higher, nothing more sacred than 
truth, plain and unvarnished. The cat will 
out of the bag; and I feel it my duty to 
tell A—” 

^^John, John” almost shrieked his wife, 
^^for the sake of all you love say no more — 
you are not yourself.” 

“I will say more,” he answered dog- 
gedly; ^^Mary, out with the truth and tell 
the child that this twelvemonth you have 
given up all belief in God, and that — ” 

He never finished his words. A low, sad 
moan (such a moan as comes from the 
depths of blighting disappointment) froze 


80 


Ada Merton. 


his very soul, and as he started in horror 
from his seat, he saw Ada lying senseless in 
her mother’s arms. 

Could Mr. Merton believe his eyes? The 
terrible fruits of his folly sobered him in- 
stantly; he rushed forward towards his 
fainting child; but the face of an angry 
woman stayed his progress. She was loos- 
ening Ada’s dress, while Maggie bathed her 
face. Mr. Merton standing mid-way in the 
room tore his hair. 

^^0, what have I done! what have I 
done!” he cried. 

His words in his wife’s ears were as fuel 
to the flame. She gave Ada over to Maggie, 
and turning on him drew herself up like a 
queen passing sentence on a low traitor. 

^‘What have you done!” she repeated 
with blazing eyes, ^^you have taken the 
notion of Grod from your wife; you have 
tried to take it from her daughter ; and into 
the place that Grod once held in this house, 
you have introduced the demon of drink.” 

Turning from him as though he were 
unworthy the look of bitter scorn which 
rested upon her countenance, she addressed 
herself to the child with all a tender mother’s 


Ada Merton, 81 

love. Speak to me, Ada; darling, darling 
child, speak to me.’^ 

^^Mrs. Merton, dear, be calm,^’ said 
Maggie, ^^Ada will be all right in a moment. 
There, now, she opens her eyes.^’ 

‘^Do you know me, darling cried the 
mother laying her cheek beside that of her 
child. 

^‘Yes, mamma,’’ said Ada faintly. 

The shame-faced father advancing caught 
her hand. ^^Ada,” he cried, ^Torgive me.” 

But the child again relapsed ; and as Mrs. 
Merton gazed upon her palhd face that one 
supplication returned to her mind, hke the 
burden of a song; — 

^^0 Mary Merton, Mary Merton come 
back, come back, before it is too late.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


IvO as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 
The wild pulsation of her wings ; 


Like her I go. 


— Tennyson. 



‘HE day that had brought so much sorrow 


1 to Ada was at its close. She was alone 
in her room thinking sadly of her parents’ 
condition ; and as she knelt at the foot of 
the cross her heart put itself into the words 
she breathed for father and mother ; praying 
that they might come to the knowledge of 
the one, true God, ^^and of Jesus Christ, 
whom He had sent.” 

Ada was by no means of a despondent 
disposition. She was thrice happy ; happy by 
nature, happy by grace, happy by innocence. 
But happiness is not opposed to zeal, and in 
one matter was concentrated all the earnest- 
ness of her soul ; and that one matter was 
the honor of Jesus. She not only had faith, 
but it was a strong, earnest, wholesome 
faith ; a faith that would endure wind and 


( 82 ) 


Ada Merton, 


83 


storm. Nor is it at all strange to find this 
virtue in one so young; for, to use the 
words of Cardinal Manning, ^‘The mind of 
a little child is larger and more expanded 
for the conception of revealed truth, than 
the minds of philosophers and sceptics, who 
narrow their understandings with unreason- 
able and pertinacious doubt. 

Ada, in her present depressed state, natur- 
ally thought of the many saints, who had 
been compelled to suffer so much for God ; 
and as St. Agnes, St. Catharine, St. Cecilia, 
and those other heroic virgins of old sug- 
gested themselves to her mind her heart 
grew brave, and she thanked her Saviour 
that she too was suffering something for 
His sake. And yet the bitter tears would 
crowd her eyes, to think that her mother 
was in danger of never seeing the good God. 

What can I doT^ she thought; ^^what 
ought I to do 

Her eyes wandered about the room, till 
their gaze was fixed upon the picture of the 
Blessed Virgin. And the loving face of 
that heavenly mother seemed so compas- 
sionate, so consoling, that she dwelt upon 
it for many moments. Suddenly her tearful 


84 


Ada Merton. 


face brightened. Why might she not write 
to her dear mother? St. Stanislaus had 
done so, and he was a great saint. 

^Wes,^^ she thought, ^^the Blessed Virgin 
is the Consoler of the Afflicted, the Mother 
of Sorrows ; and I know that she loves me 
very much.’’ The child was not long in 
deciding ; then going to her desk, she wrote, 
in all the love and confidence which only an 
innocent child can possess, the following 
letter: — 

Bear Mother Mary : 

I am one of your little girls in St. Louis. 
I am just about ten, dear mother Mary, 
and I am trying as well as I can to be 
very good, and never offend your Son. 
I am in the first Communion class and 
I am so anxious to make a very good 
one. I am not at all afraid; for I know 
that our dear Saviour used to love children 
when He was on earth ; and then He was so 
kind. And then he put his hands on them 
and caressed them, too ; so I am not at aU 
afraid. 

I want to tell you in this letter, dear 
mother Mary, how much I love you. But 
I want to ask a present, too ; at least I want 


Ada Merton. 


85 


you to ask your dear Son to grant me this 
present ; for I know He will not say no to 
such a good mother as you. My heart is 
very sad to-night, dear mother Mary; I 
have often cried because that my father 
does not believe in God, and I have cried 
over and over again on that account. When 
papa said at dinner to-day that mamma did 
not believe in God, I felt such a sharp pain, 
and then I didn^t know anything, till I woke 
up and was lying on my bed, and dear 
mamma, whom I love ever so much, cr3dng 
over me, and asking me to speak to her. 
And when I looked at her, she seemed so 
glad, and came and kissed me over and 
over, as if she had not seen me for a long 
time. And then, dear mother Mary, when 
I asked her if she believed in God, she cried 
and only kissed me. Maggie was in the 
room, and she was crying too. Then mamma 
went out of the room, and in a few minutes 
came back with papa, who looked so sad, 
and told me I could go to the convent as 
long as I like, and he said he would get me 
the nicest white dress in the city for first 
Communion. I am glad of all that ; but I love 
mamma so, and yet, dear mother Mary, she 


86 


Ada Merton. 


doesn^t believe in you, nor in Grod, nor in 
the beautiful angels, that I often see in my 
dreams, and hear talk to me. 0, won^t 
you please pray for her? and for my father? 
Tell your dear Son that I love them ever so 
much and that I would die for them. I am 
only a httle girl, and I am not of much use 
in this big world ; and if I knew papa and 
mamma would become Catholics, I would 
be glad to die, and see your blessed face, 
and live with angels and saints. 

So, dear Mother Mary, if you convert my 
parents, I will be so happy. And I am 
willing to die. I hope you will like what I 
say in this letter, and I hope you will not 
mind the mistakes of a little girl. 

Your loving child, 

Ada Merton. 

Carefully folding the letter, Ada placed it 
in her bosom, so that it might be with her 
night and day, until her petition was heard. 
She was about to resume her position at her 
prie-dieUj when Maggie^ s voice was heard 
outside; — 

^^May I come in, my darling. 

^ ^Certainly, Maggie, I am glad you are 
come.^^ 


Ada Merton. 


87 


Maggie entered the room, and seeing at 
a glance that Ada had been weeping, she 
took the child in her lap and for some time 
stroked the httle face in silence. 

^^Well, Maggie, I feel better now.^^ 

^^Are you, alannah? Well, I^m glad to 
hear it this blessed night. 

^^Don^t you think we can bring mamma 
back to believe in G-od, Maggie?^’ continued 
the child. 

^^Of course, we can,^’ Maggie replied 
loudly and boldly ; though she added under 
her breath, ^Gt^s a dreadful lie: — Why, our 
Lord says that if two meet together in His 
name and agree on asking Him something. 
He will grant it ; and now, Ada, you and 
me will pray for the Grand Mogul — your 
father, God forgive me that I should be 
losing my patience — and your mamma to 
get common sense, and to beheve in God; 
and we^U be heard; and who^ll say that we 
won^tr’ 

^Wery well, Maggie; and I’ll get Sister 
Felicitas to pray with us, too.” 

^^Do, honey. It’s just the thing. That 
Sister is a jewel, she’s so modest and gentle 
that I get bashful-hke before her, which 


88 


Ada Merton. 


very seldom happens to me, seeing as I 
don^t come of a bashful family, having two 
brothers as were the bravest in Ireland; 
Grod save her and keep her green for ever! 

^ ^Indeed, I know you are brave, Maggie, 
said Ada smiling. 

^^Well I^U not say no, though it isn^t me 
as should say it,’’ answered Maggie with a 
pleased air, ^^but if the Turk — if your father 
doesn’t be improving. I’ll talk to him like 
— hke a Dutch uncle ; and now, my dear, 
it is time for you to go to bed; but don’t 
be down-hearted ; never say die; there’s as 
many fish in the sea as ever came out of it. 
Grood-night.” and with these first principles 
on her lips Maggie made her adieu. 

Putting out the light, Ada again knelt 
beside the crucifix, praying in all earnestness 
for her parents. Long did the weak child 
hold her arms extended in the form of a 
cross ; so long, that from sheer exhaustion 
they fell at her side. What a power is 
prayer coming from a pure heart ; it con- 
strains, as it were, the very will of the all- 
powerful Grod. And was Ada’s supplication 
to be unheeded? 

She heard not the opening of the door, 


Ada Merton. 


89 


so absorbed was she in prayer ; she saw not 
Mrs. Merton gazing on her in amazement. 
The mother advanced, unperceived, and 
caught the child to her bosom. 

^ ^Darling, why are you up so late? I 
thought you were in bed.^’ 

was praying for you, mamma, was 
Ada^s simple answer. 

^^But you are too weak, my child, to stay 
up so late, and besides, little girls need more 
rest. Come, darhng, let me help you to bed. ’ ^ 
Even after Ada had been snugly wrapped 
up, the mother hung over the slight form, 
her arms around the child^s neck. 

^^Ada,’^ she asked, with some hesitation 
and after a long pause, ^^do you still love 
me as much as before?’^ 

^^More, mamma, and I^U never stop 
praying for you, till you believe in Grod.^^ 
^^That will never — here Mrs. Merton 
checked herself, fear it will be a long 
time, but it may come. Now, my child, go 
to sleep.’’ 

The mother with one arm still about her 
daughter, sang a cradle song which Ada well 
knew and soon the child was sleeping peace- 


90 


Ada Merton, 


fully. But for hours afterwards Mrs. Merton 
gazed upon that pure lovely face. 

Frequently would she kiss the pale cheek; 
and at times a look of pain (the outward 
expression of an indefinable presentiment) 
would cross her features. Did the fond, 
foohsh, unhappy mother see the veil of 
futurity rent asunder? Did she discern even 
a shadow of wrath to come! 


CHAPTER X. 


Glory to God, who so the world hath framed, 
That in all places children more abound 
Than they by whom humanity is shamed. 

— Aubrey De Vere. 
He saddens ; all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bower and hall, 

And all the place is dark, and all 
The chambers emptied of delight. 

— Tennyson. 

T he nearer the longed-for day of her first 
Communion approached, the more eager 
grew Ada^s desire for the coming of her 
only Love. 

The hallowing mantle of some saint ap- 
peared to have fallen upon her ; and, as she 
threaded the streets on her way to school, 
many a hardened man would turn to look 
upon her pure face, and would feel instinc- 
tively a vague, newly awakening regret for 
the days, when his heart was less grovelling, 
less of the earth, and knew something of 
that peace which the proud, rich world has 
never given. 

The dark shadow of infidelity which came 

( 91 ) 


92 


Ada Merton, 


between Jier and father and mother did not 
utterly take away her joy; true, her earthly 
love lay bleeding ; but she was one of those 
^^thrice-blessed, whose loves in higher loves 
endure/’ And she felt so confident too 
that her Divine Visitor would surely grant 
her parents’ conversion. 

None of her schoolmates, when they saw 
the tastily-dressed, smiling, gentle girl, 
reckoned for a moment that she bore within 
her bosom a weight of care, which few 
Catholic children — thank Giod — ever have 
to experience. 

It was the last Thursday that preceded 
the great morning. Ada was standing in 
the school-ground among a knot of little 
girls. 

^^Only three days more!” said one, ^^My! 
doesn’t it seem awful strange?” 

Strange!” cried another; am so 
anxious for the day to come ; and mamma 
has made me — 0 ! just the love-li-est white 
dress ! ’ ’ The little miss invested her whole 
stock of vigor in that one adjective. 

^^I’m going to have something more nicer 
than that,” broke in the smallest of the 
group. ^^My ma is going to get me the 


Ada Merton 93 

sweetest crown of roses for my head. What 
are you going to have, Ada?’^ 

‘^Papa and mamma are getting me a very 
nice dress, Ada answered. 

^^And your mamma prays for you all the 
time? and says the beads with you every 
night, doesn^t she?^’ pursued the interro- 
gator. 

No one that looked on Ada^s tranquil 
countenance could have had the faintest 
suspicion of the heart-sickness she felt at 
these questions. 

^^Does your mother pray for you?’’ she 
asked, thus turning olf the question. 

^‘Does she!” answered the other, ^^why 
that’s just no name for itj as my brother 
Tom says — brother Tom does use such 
horrid slang — she seems so anxious for me 
to be a good girl, and make a very good 
Communion. And then she tells the sweet- 
est stories about first Communion, they’d 
make you cry to hear them.” The child 
had scarcely entered fairly upon her narra- 
tion, when all the little girls began speaking 
simultaneously, except Ada, who being the 
only listener became at once the victim of 
six different accounts, interesting, no doubt, 


94 


Ada Merton. 


of ^ ^ mamma’ great interest in the great 
day. Their babble created a sense of void 
in poor Ada’s heart ; much as she loved her 
mother, she could never receive that sym- 
pathy which only a devout mother can give. 

When the bell rang for the ending of 
recess, all the children hurried away in a 
great flutter to the room where they were 
being prepared. It was the day appointed 
for distributing the prizes to those in the 
Communion class who had been distin- 
guished for exemplary conduct. No one 
doubted who was to be the winner of the 
flrst prize ; and when Ada Merton was read 
out for it, flfty little hands and as many 
joyous eyes were unanimous in testifying 
their owners’ approbation. Ada’s coun- 
tenance flushed with pleasure, as with a 
smile and a bow she received from the 
hands of Sister Felicitas a beautifully bound 
volume. She knew that her mother was 
always proud when her little girl excelled in 
anything — even in rehgion. 

As Bob met her at the school door in the 
afternoon, he noted her pleased expression. 

‘‘Well, missy Ada,” he began, “you does 


Ada Merton, 95 

look happy dis afternoon : what is you glad 
about 

Ada told him of her prize, showing the 
book. 

^^You^se a great book -bible- maniac,’^ 
here Bob coughed to hide his conscious 
triumph . ^ ^ Bible-maniac ^ ^ was the proudest 
word graven on the tablets of his memory, 
and it was seldom he had an opportunity of 
astonishing his auditors by its ponderous 
sound. ^^Yes, missy Ada,’^ he repeated 
^^you’se a great book bible-maniac.^^ 

^^What is a book bible-maniac, Bob?^^ 
asked his amused charge. 

^^The tahm book bible-maniac,^^ answered 
Bob with dignity, ^^am a G-reek suppression, 
and means some one what^s gone on books. 
But,^’ he continued laying aside his dignity, 
and beaming with smiles, ^^I^se happy too, 
missy Ada, dis hyar day.^’ 

thought something nice had happened 
to you. Has papa raised your wages? 

^^Lor^ bress you, missy, I doesn^t caeh fo^ 
wages. ^De wages ob sin am deff.^ Bob 
stopped to chuckle over the apt quotation, 
and added, ^^Missy, I^se jes’ done had a 
glorious time.’ ^ 


96 


Ada Merton. 


^^Why what have you been doing! Are 
you ready soon to be baptized!’’ 

^^You’se red hot, missy; ; almos’ guessed 
it. I’se done made my fust ’fession.” 

^^Did you!” cried Ada with brightening 
eyes; ^^I’m so very, very glad. And don’t 
you feel happy!” 

^^As, as a big sun flowah,” was the genial 
reply. 

^ ^That’s good; and when you are baptized 
you will be fit to go straight to heaven, if 
you were to die.” 

’spose I would. I nebbeh yet felt so 
fight an’ gay; an’ I made de pries’ laugh, 
too.” 

^^You did! How was that. Bob!” 

^^You see, he says to me when he opened 
dem chinks in de ’fession box, ^My chile, 
how long sence you last ’fession!’ an’ he 
didn’t look at me at all. So as I didn’t 
want decebe him, I says ^ef you look through 
these heah chinks, father, you’ll see dat I’se 
no chile; I ’seneah forty-five yeahs ole, an I’se 
nebbeh been to ’fession befoah. I’se a new 
controvert, / is,’ an den he smile, an’ tole 
me a lot o’ nice sayins, an’ I tole him all 
about mysef, an’ nex’ Sunday when you 


Ada Merton. 97 

makes youah fust Communion, I’se to be 
baptized/^ 

^^It will be a very happy day for both of 
us,’^ said Ada in high delight at Bob’s good 
sentiments. ^ ^But here we are home already, 
and there is mamma waiting for me on the 
steps.” 

Mrs. Merton’s face relaxed from the ex- 
pression of sadness that of late had been 
becoming habitual to it, as Ada showed her 
the prize. 

^^So it’s for virtue, Ada,” she said, as 
they proceeded towards the sitting-room.” 

Well, I think you deserve it. You remind 
me of those child-saints I used to read of, 
when I was a girl hke yourself.” 

^^Ah, mamma,” said Ada sadly, ^^you 
never read such books now.” 

^^No, my child; I have no time for such 
trifles.” 

^ ^Trifles ! ’ ’ cried the child, her face glowing 
with earnestness, ^^how can you say that? 
0 mamma, mamma, dearest ! Every morning 
when I look from the window, at the sun, 
and smell the sweet flowers, in my garden, 
and hear the little birds singing so, I can’t 
help feeling that there’s a good, great Grod, 


98 Ada Merton, 

who made all these pretty things for us, 
mamma. 

^^And so you count me out, do youT^ 
chimed in Mr. Merton, who had just entered 
the room unperceived; ^^why Ada, you^re 
an out and out little poet — only you have 
all the beauty of the present style of poets, 
without their eternal leaven of mysticism 
and nonsense. I think, he added taking 
pencil and paper from his coat, ^^1^11 make 
a note of what you said, and send it on to 
the Century Magazine. The editors would 
like it I’m sure. 

^^0 don’t papa: but I know you’re only 
joking.” 

^^Am I though?” said the imperturbable 
father, ^^we’U see. How was that you said 
it? — Ah, yes (here he began writing); 
^Every morning when I look out of my 
window — ’ ” 

^^0 papa, please don’t,” begged Ada with 
so much earnestness that the impromptu 
reporter threw aside his tablets, and indulged 
with his wife in a hearty laugh. 

The room seemed to brighten for the 
moment (it had long been dull enough), 
and Mr. Merton began to talk in his former 


Ada Merton, 


99 


happy, jocose manner. Ada was overjoyed 
at the change ; and Mrs. Merton actually lost 
all her gloom. But a calm often precedes 
the storm. While the moments were still 
gliding merrily along, the bell was heard 
ringing, and presently Maggie entered 
the room with a telegram, which she handed 
her master. He tore open the envelope nerv- 
ously and read its contents with gathering 
brows. Tearing it to pieces, and muttering 
a suppressed oath, he strode from the room. 
The astonished lady gathered up the frag- 
ments of the telegram, and, while throwing 
them in the fire, saw, without intending it, 
on one of the scraps, ‘ ^ Bender^ s Bank fa — 
She could readily surmise his trouble •, for 
if the Bender^ s Bank had closed its doors, 
he would be a loser of more than one half 
of his fortune. 

It was eleven o’clock before he returned 
that night, and his bloodshot eyes and 
flushed face told their story. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Then out came his lady fair, 

A tear into her ee ; 

Says “stay at home, my own good lord, 

O stay at home with me ! “ 

— Old Ballad. 

T here was great excitement in the city 
the next morning. Men who had 
retired the previous night in fancied security 
awoke to find themselves ruined. The 
Bender^ s Bank had always enjoyed high 
favor with the poorer classes ; and the in- 
dustrious servant girl, who had been happy 
in a growing bank account, the clerk, who 
had deprived himself of countless luxuries 
with a view to beginning business for him- 
self, and the simple laboring man who had 
laid by something for a rainy day, were at 
once reduced to the lowly state whence they 
had begun. It was a pitiful sight to see the 
crowd thronging the narrow street facing 
the bank ; pale, angry creditors beating at 
the closed doors, some shouting madly, 
others proclaiming their losses to entire 
( 100 ) 


Ada Merton. 


101 


strangers; others too miserable to speak: 
more pitiful still to note among them poor, 
pinched working girls, many of them weeping 
bitterly. Mr. Merton was a heavy loser; 
nearly all his cash was on deposit there; 
and were it not for the large amount he 
invested in real estate, he would have been 
utterly ruined. Looking to nothing beyond 
this world, money was to him of supreme 
importance ; and the loss drove him almost 
frantic. The first pallor of dawn had 
scarcely thrown its dim, gray veil over the 
city, when he started from his bed, as though 
awakening from a troubled dream. 

^^Mary,’^ he said, turning upon her his 
wild swollen eyes, ^ ‘where is the paper 

She procured it for him ; and he eagerly 
ran his eyes over the columns, moaning, 
and muttering to himself in a manner that 
made his wife tremble. 

“John,^’ she faltered, “don^t make your- 
self so miserable : remember, my dear, that 
you have your wife and daughter, whom all 
the banks in the world couldn’t take from 
you. Beside you have your real estate to 
fall back upon. We are far, very far from 
being poor.” 


102 


Ada Merton, 


But Merton heeded not her remarks, so 
absorbed was he in the account of the bank’s 
habilities. Suddenly, he started up in bed, 
clenched his hands, threw them wildly 
about, and uttered a blood-curling impre- 
cation on the heads of those who had in 
charge the business management. 

^^•Look at that,” he shouted, when the 
tempest of his wrath had moderated ; and 
he pointed to a certain paragraph. 

She read: — ^^The affairs of the bank have 
been so poorly, so recklessly managed, that 
it seems doubtful whether its creditors will 
ever be able to make good two per cent, of 
their money. It is rumored that the cashier, 
who is in large part responsible, will die 
shady’ for some time to come.” 

In the meantime, Mr. Merton was 
dressing ; but so wild were his actions that 
his wife trembled with alarm. 

‘ ^ Where are you going so early, my dear? ’ ’ 
she inquired in her most winning manner. 
‘‘Surely you do not intend leaving us so 
long before business hours.” 

He made no answer, but hastened to com- 
plete his toilet. Still silent, he went to the 
bureau ; pulled out one drawer after another, 


Ada Merton. 


103 


throwing drawer and contents on the floor, 
in search evidently of some particular article. 

His wife stood by in trepidation: never 
before had she seen him in so furious a mood. 

^^Mary,^^ he broke out suddenly, ^ Vhere 
are my pistols? 

^^0 John, my love,^’ she moaned while 
clasping her hands together, ^ ^ what are you 
about to do? There is murder in your eye, 
dear John. No, no; you mustn^t ask for 
them; you shall not have them.’’ 

Very well, then: this will do,” and he 
advanced towards the mantlepiece, whereon 
lay a richly-hilted dagger. 

But his wife was before him, and hid it in 
the bosom of her dress. ^^No, dear John,” 
she said turning to her baffled husband, 
who, furious as he was, still respected his 
wife, ^^you are carried away by passion, 
and may do in a moment what may occasion 
life-long regret.” 

^^Let me see the dagger,” he persisted. 

^^Not now, dearest: you shall see it some 
other time.” 

The words, ^^you shall see it at some other 
time,” were uttered at random. But later 
on he did see it, and the wildness of her 


104 


Ada Merton, 


features now was as nothing in comparison 
to the dreadful memories that were to cluster 
about that other time, when in an agony 
she made good the unwitting promise she 
had given, little knowing, poor woman, of 
its dreadful fulfillment. 

^^Well, Mary, I must go,^^ and he made 
to leave the room. 

But she threw her arms around him, and 
begged with tears to know what he was 
about. He softened a little, and a film 
came over his eyes. 

^^Mary, my life, it is all my love for 
you and for Ada. I have been swindled : 
basely, outrageously swindled. The money 
that was to afford you and — and my only 
child all the pleasures of life, has been taken 
by a set of rascals. Yesterday at three 
o^clock, just before the bank closed I depos- 
ited in addition to what I had already there, 
eight thousand five hundred dollars, the 
proceeds of a sale of land, I had made that 
day ; and the black-hearted scoundrel of a 
cashier, who knew that the bank was to 
close forever three minutes later — the — 
dastard^ ^ — here he ground his teeth, and 
for a moment failed of words, so great was 


Ada Merton, 


105 


his wrath — ^^this cashier smiled pleasantly 
took my money and invited me with his 
glib tongue to call again! I tell you, Mary, 
before this day is out, 1^11 have his blood! 

But she held him fast, and hung sobbing 
on his bosom. 

^‘No John, promise me not to seek for 
him — to-day at least. Wait till to-morrow. ’’ 

^‘But I will seek him to-day, Mary; and 
either he or I will close our accounts for 
good.^^ 

He struggled to get away, but his wife 
clung to him, speechless and sobbing. For 
a moment he stood infuriated, still with 
enough of the human in him not to offer 
the least violence to the woman of his love. 
But as his wrongs chased through his memory 
all gentle feelings began to leave him. He 
caught his wife with his strong arms, and held 
her as though about to throw her from him. 
While they were thus standing, Ada entered 
the room. The horrible anger on her 
father^s face filled her with terror; the 
miserable, frightened countenance of her 
sobbing mother inspired her with pitying 
love. She drew back for a moment in 
amazement, not knowing what course to 


106 


Ada Merton, 


take ; then raising her loving eyes in suppli- 
cation, she said: — 

^^Kiss me, dear papa.^^ 

And the strong, furious man raised his 
little daughter in his arms, embraced her, 
and burst into tears. The innocence and 
love of Ada had conquered him for the time. 

Before he departed for town that morning, 
he promised his wife on his honor that 
nothing should tempt him to make search 
after the swindler. 

How long and dreary was that day to 
Mrs. Merton. There was a time — quite 
recently, indeed — when her husband^s word 
was to her a motive of supreme confidence. 
But now, should he drown his sorrows with 
wine, what reliance could be placed on his 
most sacred promises? Evening came, and 
with it a terrific storm. The sky had been 
gloomy throughout the day; from early 
morning, the clouds, like a hostile army, 
had been massing themselves together in 
the heavens. Clad in their blackest, they 
lowered upon the world, and seemed pre- 
paring to make a descent upon it, as upon 
their most hated enemy. Towards noon, 
low mutterings of thunder had been heard. 


Ada Merton. 


107 


which grew in distinctness as the day 
declined. About four of the afternoon, 
the wind which had been sobbing and 
sighing all day, arose violently, and 
gave forth the whistling battle-cry of the 
storm king; down came the rain, fiercely 
and pitilessly ; streak after streak of light- 
ning cast a mocking, momentary fiash of 
light over the unnatural darkness : and the 
thunder almost unintermittingly rattled and 
crashed along the heavens. 

Ada was safe at home ; Mr. Merton had 
not yet returned. His wife stood at the 
window with the child, and the dark, low- 
ering, massed clouds seemed to sink into 
her very soul ; the heavy peals of thunder 
reached her foreboding heart like the moan 
of calamity ; and the forked lightning shone 
before her like gleams of hatred from hostile 
eyes. 

^‘Why do you shiver, mamma? are you 
afraid?’’ asked Ada noticing her mother’s 
affright. 

am very nervous, darling; I feel as 
though the dark shadow of death were hov- 
ering above our house.” 


108 


Ada Merton. 


^ ‘Death isn’t a dark shadow; for after it, 
we shall see the glorious Grod and His saints. ’ ’ 

“If it were only so.” sighed the poor 
woman. “But why is your father so late? 
and in such weather, too. I have been 
expecting him this hour.” 

At that moment a terrific clap of thunder 
broke upon the air. Mrs. Merton had be- 
come so nervous, that at the sound she sank 
into a chair, and covered her face with her 
hands. She was called to herself by Ada’s 
voice. 

“0 look, mamma, we’re going to have 
visitors.” 

She arose, and looking out of the window, 
saw a carriage in front of the house. Fearing 
that the unknown evil was near, she rushed 
from the room, and down the stairs, where 
she was met at the door by a gentleman. 

“My husband! where is he?” she gasped, 
for her voice was choked by agitation. 

“Be calm, madam; he is not seriously 
injured : he is only stunned. ’ ’ 

With a low, sad cry of pain, she hastened 
past him to the street. Already four 
men were lifting his helpless form out 
of the carriage. He was senseless, and 


Ada Merton. 


109 


there was a wound on his head, from which 
the blood had issued and clotted upon his 
hair. It was a gloomy sight, the carriage 
black and bespattered with mud ; the driver 
on the seat so wrapped that he looked like 
the shadow of death ; the pelting rain falling 
upon the helpless body and its bearers, and 
the wild but beautiful lady catching the 
irresponsive hand of her husband. But, 
they hastened to tell her, he was not seri- 
ously injured. A good night^s rest they 
assured her, would enable him to be about 
on the morrow. 

The wretched man, as we have seen, had 
left the house early in the morning, and 
faithful to his promise had at first taken no 
measures to meet with the cashier. All 
would have gone well, had he restrained 
himself from liquor. But in his rage, he 
had imbibed freely ; and in a state border- 
ing on frenzy, chance had brought him face 
to face with the cashier. Words were 
exchanged; blows followed. So furious 
was the attack of the hquor-crazed man, 
that his apponent, through fear of losing 
his life, had seized a cane and struck Meidon 
a severe blow upon the head. 


110 


Ada Merton. 


The wound was not at aU serious, but the 
tippling! This it was that weighed most 
heavily upon Mary Merton ^s heart. She 
began to reahze that one source of her 
happiness was gone ; that the formerly kind, 
and sober husband could be no longer 
depended on with the same, confiding, loving 
reliance. She sat beside her husband^s bed, 
long after he had fallen into a heavy slumber ; 
and her thoughts were bitter. She looked 
upon the pain - contracted face of Mr. 
Merton, and shuddered, as her conscious- 
ness told her that the old love was ebbing 
away surely but slowly, and rounding into 
the narrower forms of fear and anxiety. 

Ada had long been slumbering quietly, 
when she was awakened by her mother’s 
warm kisses. 

^^0 Ada, my child,” cried the mother, 
clasping the little girl tightly to her bosom, 
^^you, my darling, and only you, are my 
happiness, my heaven, my all.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


I’ve been abused, insulted, and betrayed ; 

My injured honor cries aloud for vengeance 
Her wounds will never close ! 

— Shakespeare. 

T he next day brought back the sun bright 
as ever; it reawakened the stilled 
voices of the birds, and the hght touch of 
the vernal breeze; it restored peace, calm 
and joy, to all nature — and consciousness,, 
though not peace, to the injured man. His 
heart was envenomed with hatred, and his 
mind revolved a thousand projects for 
meting out punishment to his enemy ade- 
quate to the insult. But no word escaped his 
lips indicative of the thoughts of vengeance 
he was nursing. He spoke but httle, and 
every answer that he tendered his wife’s 
anxious inquiries fell upon her ear like the 
harsh sounds of some shattered musical 
instrument. 

His proud spirit chafed at the treatment 
he had received. And why should he pass 
over an insult, why should he turn the other 
( 111 ) 


112 


Ada Merton, 


cheek, since long years ago he had rejected 
the Prince of peace, since he had sneered 
at the sublime commands of Him who tells 
us to ^dove our enemies, to pray for those 
who persecute and calumniate usP^ But 
bound to his bed by the cruel bonds of pain, 
he was powerless for the day : and at times 
he would gnash his teeth and groan, not 
for physical suffering, but for his impotency 
to wreak instant vengeance upon his cow- 
ardly assailant. 

At length he determind upon his course 
of action. Dismissing his wife from the room 
on some shallow pretext, he hastily penned 
the following note to the cashier : 

If you are a gentleman (which I have 
many reasons for doubting) you will meet 
me at two o’clock p. m. to-morrow (Sunday) 
in Barker’s saloon west of the Fair Grrounds. 
Bring any friend of yours along that you 
please. I wiU await you there till night, 
and if you fail to appear (as seems to be 
very probable) I will brand you as a coward, 
and horsewhip you on the first occasion. 

John Merton.” 


Ada Merton. 


113 


Secretly summoning Bob, he despatched 
him with the missive to the cashier ^s resi- 
dence. When Mrs. Merton returned, she 
felt instinctively that her husband was 
cherishing some new secret ; but so dispirited 
was the humbled lady, that she dared not 
question him. Mr. Merton, now that he 
had relieved his mind on the one subject 
which was rankhng there, suddenly became 
hvely and gay; and to his wife’s no little 
joy spoke cheerfully of his losses, and with 
consummate art, diverted all the suspicions 
which she previously might have formed. 

It was an utterly different day to Ada; 
for it was the one of her final preparation 
for the happiest event of her life. Long 
after her confession, she remained before 
the tabernacle, praying for those of her own 
household, who were sitting in the shadow 
of death ; praying that the good God might 
open their eyes to the brightness of eternal 
fight ; praying that in union with her they 
might come to recognize one God, one 
Faith, one Lord and Master of all. She 
returned home filled with beautiful thoughts 
of the next morning. 


114 


Ada Merton. 


^Tapa’,’^ she said, ^^are you better this 
evening 

^^Why, of course. Can’t you see I’m 
better? I expect to go out in the yard 
to-morrOw, and stand on my head to show 
you how hard it is.” 

^^Well, papa,” here Ada hesitated, ‘^won’t 
— won’t you come along with mamma to- 
morrow morning, and see me make my first 
Communion?” 

He turned uneasily in his bed. 

the other little girls are going to 
have their papas, and mammas along,” 
Ada suggested. 

^ ^That’s a pretty strong argument,” an- 
swered the father, ^^but it’s so chilly in the 
morning. That hole in my head has created 
quite a draught up there.” 

^‘Do come, John,” urged his wife, seeing 
that he was inclining to assent. 

^^Well, I’ll go; seeing that the whole 
family is standing out against me. But 
you needn’t ask me to come to church 
again, till I build one myself.” 

Ada clapped her hands, and, bending 
down, kissed him tenderly. 

^‘That’s a good, dear papa,” she said. 


Ada Merton, 


115 


^^and I^m going to pray so hard for you 
and mamma to-morrow morning, that I^m 
sure our Saviour will hear me.’^ 

Mr. Merton smiled incredulously. 

^^IVe heard of ^care killing a cat,^ he 
said, ^^but no one ever heard of prayer even 
making one blink, so you may pray away 
Ada : it will do neither you nor us any harm . ^ ^ 

^^But it will do you good: won’t it 
mamma?” 

^^I’m afraid not, Ada, your papa and I 
are too old to change our opinions so easily ; 
even to please the darling httle daughter we 
love so much.” 

^ ^Too old ! ’ ’ answered Ada with an artless- 
ness which transcended the highest art; 
^^why you’re not old, mamma. Sister 
Felicitas told me once, the day after she 
met you and me walking together, that you 
look so young, and more like my elder sister 
than my mother.” 

^^Did she?” said Mrs. Merton, not a little 
pleased. From that moment she felt a 
friendly regard for Ada’s teacher. 

^^Yes, mamma, and she wants to know 
you, and is always asking me why you don’t 
come and pay her a visit.” 


116 


Ada Merton, 


^^Well, well, I must go and see Sister 
Felicitas soon : she must be very nice, since 
my little girl can love her so much/^ 

indeed, she is very nice: and I’m 
sure you’ll love her very much ; and she’ll 
be able to teU you ever so many things 
about Giod, that will make you believe.” 

Ada was now happy: she felt that a 
victory had been gained ; that her parents 
were coming closer to the true faith. Re- 
solving to push her advantages, she added, 
after a pause : — 

Sister Felicitas said something beautiful 
to us to day.” 

^^What was it, Ada?” asked Mrs. Merton. 

^^She told us that our loving Jesus enters 
our souls in holy Communion as into a 
tabernacle ; and that He loves to find this 
tabernacle adorned with the flowers of 
virtue. And then she said that the flowers 
dearest to Jesus were the roses of love, 
the hlies of purity and the violets of modesty ; 
and that as the dew brings out more perfectly 
the loveliness of an earthly flower, so the 
dew of prayer makes these heavenly flowers 
most grateful to His loving Heart. And so 
now, dear mamma, and papa, I’m going 


Ada Merton, 


117 


to my room for a while to pray for this 
heavenly dew. Grood bye, dear mamma, 
good bye, dear papa,^^ and she kissed them 
with a loving tenderness all the greater that 
it seemed to be spiritualized into the highest 
and holiest love which poor human nature 
can attain. 

^^Ah, John,’^ sighed the mother when 
Ada had left the room, felt just then as 
though, in spite of all my experience and 
knowledge, I was in the presence of some 
superior being. 

^^Hum,^^ muttered John trying to resist 
the same conviction, ^ ^natural sensation — 
animal magnetism, electricity, etcetera. 
But,^’ he continued with more earnestness, 
^^she really is a wonderful child. There are 
preachers abounding, who could never at- 
tempt to speak in the beautiful simple way, 
in which she just now spoke to us. Her sub- 
ject was nonsensical of course j but one could 
see that she really beheved what she said, 
which is much more than can be allowed of 
our high salaried ministers of the day. Yes, 
Mary *, we must take good care of her. In 
a few years, she will be as beautiful a young 
lady as this country can boast — if she live.^^ 


118 


Ada Merton. 


“Live!^^ echoed his mfe, my goodness, 
John, you can^t imagine that she will be 
taken from us! ” 

don^t know, Mary; but when she 
kissed me just now with that strange spirit- 
uelle look shining about her, I felt as if she 
were going away for a long time. — But 
that’s nonsense — superstition. ” 

^^Of course,” she assented, ^df a person 
is a little careful, death need never be con- 
sidered. It is a morbid thought. Life 
becomes intolerable under its shadow. But, 
John, let us love Ada more and more, for, 
to adapt the beautiful comparison of Sister 
Felicitas, she is, indeed a rose of love.” 

^^Yes; but we had better tend our blos- 
soming little flower very carefully, lest those 
ogres of the black veil, of which Sister 
Fehcitas is a member, steal our rose away 
and leave us nothing but the thorns.” 

^^Have no fear, John: Ada may persist in 
her rehgion — for though it be false, I really 
am coming to think that it is a blessing to 
those who believe — but, mind me, she shall 
never be a nun.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


The priest comes down to the railing, 
Where brows are bowed in prayer ; 

In the tender clasp of his fingers 
A Host lies pure and fair, 

And the hearts of Christ and the Christian 
Meet there — and onh’ there. 


— Abram J. Ryan. 



^HE happy morning was come. Long 


1 before the ruby-tinted messengers of 
the sun had set his royal signet in the East, 
Ada was up and dressed. Never did she 
look more like a bright stranger from the 
unknown land than at the dawn of this 
Easter morning, as robed in spotless white 
she knelt before her crucifix, her very eyes, 
nay her whole being, the homes of silent 
prayer. Shining with ^^the fight that 
never yet was seen on land or sea,’’ her 
face seemed to reflect the happiness of the 
blessed. A graceful and fragrant chaplet 
of roses, lilies and violets (suggested to her 
mother by the conversation of the preceding 
afternoon), rested like a glory on her fair 
hair; and, to borrow from a great author. 


120 Ada Merton. 

^^she looked like a creature fresh from the 
hands of Grod.^^ 

Not a word did she utter on her way to 
church ; and her parents respecting, if not 
appreciating, her feelings, allowed her to 
walk before them. 

^^John,^^ whispered Mrs. Merton, as they 
neared the vestibule of the church, ^dook 
at the beauty of our child. Isn^t it some- 
thing unearthly? 

^^It is remarkable, he conceded; ^ ‘never 
saw anything like it. If there were anything 
in our reach that wasn’t part and parcel of 
the earth, I would assent to your qualifying 
epithet.” 

And now for the first time in sixteen 
years, Mr. Merton, accompanied by his 
wife who was fast becoming a stranger too, 
found himself seated in a Catholic church, 
and looking again upon the great sacrifice 
of the Mass. But their carnal eyes had no 
sympathy for the grand mystery presented 
to them: Ada, and Ada alone absorbed 
their attention. 

As the child was returning from the 
communion table, Mrs. Merton could hardly 
believe her eyes. 


Ada Merton. 


121 


^^John, John, look at her face/^ she 
whispered. ^^Do my eyes deceive me, or 
isn^t her countenance aglow with light? 

^^Bosh!^^ answered the husband, ^^she 
does look hke the angels they talk of, but 
don^t you know what tender sensibilities, 
and what a lively imagination Ada has? 
She thinks she^s united to an impossible 
First Cause — that’s all. Why if that man 
at the altar were a bogus priest, and the 
bread she just now received hadn’t been 
consecrated or whatever you call it, she 
would have looked just the same.” 

It was a strange thing ; and yet as Ada 
had turned from the railing, Mr. Merton 
had by a sort of instinct thrown himself 
upon his knees ; but on remembering him- 
seK, had slipped into his seat, as though 
ashamed of himself. Mrs. Merton did not 
kneel for a moment. 

On the way home the husband was in 
bad humor ; and he went so far as to aver 
that he would never enter a Catholic church 
again — he would die first. And yet the 
unhappy man knew in the depths of his 
heart that his spleen arose from the gnawings 
of conscience, that his bitterness was caused 


122 Ada Merton, 

by the memory of his own happy first Com- 
munion. 

Mrs. Merton, too, was sad; for she could 
not but confess to herself, that notwith- 
standing her denial of the existence of God, 
she might have been much happier, she 
should now be much more hopeful, if her 
faith, baseless though it were, had never 
been shaken. 

So, when they reached their dwelling, 
they were in no mood for conversation; 
and they awaited Ada, each one busied with 
thoughts, better, perhaps, for each other^s 
sakes, left unsaid. And when the child 
arrived, it was like the sunbeam penetrating 
the gloomy cell of a prison. She gaily told 
them all about herself and her fellow-com- 
municants ; how happy each was, and what 
beautiful pictures the kind Sister had given 
them. 

^^Look at mine!’’ she went on taking a 
number of pictures from her prayer-book. 
‘^Some of them are the prettiest I have ever 
seen. Here’s Blessed Margaret Mary, and 
there’s St. Agnes; but look at this one — 
all in bright colors too — it’s the dear child 


Ada Merton, 123 

Jesus in a manger. Now, mamma, you 
must kiss it/’ 

Ada bent an eager pair of eyes upon her 
mother, who with a crimson face kissed the 
picture. 

^^You must do the same, papa,” continued 
Ada presenting it to her father. 

^^Why, how well that white dress becomes 
you,” said Mr. Merton evading the point 
as usual. ‘^You look like a miniature Venus 
rising out of the sea-foam : never did I see 
you looking so pleasing.” 

ai?m glad you hke it, papa; but why 
don’t you kiss the picture?” 

^^Well, it is a lovely dress, in an aesthetic 
point of view. Dear me, the sweetness and 
light are all there. You ought to live in 
such a dress as that always.” 

^^I’d like to die in it papa.” 

^^Ada, my darling,” broke in the mother, 
her voice quivering as she spoke, ^^don’t 
think of death. Never use that word. You 
so young, so lovely, so innocent, so talented ; 
with all the gay pleasures of life before you ! 
No, no darling, such subjects do not become 
you.” 

^ ^There’s not a girl in our class, mamma,” 


124 


Ada Merton. 


answered Ada with heightening color, ^^who 
would not gladly die to-day. This morning 
I begged my dear Saviour to take my life, 
if that would bring you and papa to the 
true faith. 

^^I?m glad you love us so much as that,^^ 
said Mr. Merton; ^^but’^ — and he smiled 
scornfully — ^^so long as you offer your life 
to Grod only, there’s not any extraordinary 
danger of your being heard. However Ada, 
I want you to be more careful of your 
health, you are beginning to grow pale and 
thin. By the way, Ada, don’t you fast?” 

He fixed his sharp eyes upon her. She hung 
her head, blushed, but made no answer. 

^ ^Answer me,” he commanded, with his 
eyes still upon her. ^^You are very pale, 
Ada. Didn’t you fast yesterday?” 

^^Yes, papa; but it was for you and 
mamma. Nobody except G-od knew of it, 
till now.” 

Upon this admission, Mr. Merton plied 
question after question; and though his 
face grew very grave, and his wife was 
moved to tears, when they learned some of 
the austerities which Ada had been imposing 
on herself for their sakes, they failed to 


Ada Merton, 


125 


discover one tithe of the bodily sufferings 
that Ada had voluntarily undergone for 
their sins. Ever since the day that her 
mother ^s unbelief had come to light, Ada, 
not sufficiently versed in asceticism to con- 
sult her confessor in such matters, had 
embraced austerities above her strength. 

Even over what they learned, her father 
and mother were very serious ; and at break- 
fast they watched her closely. But Ada 
had already perceived her mistake. 

^‘You needn^t watch me, papa; up to this, 
I didn’t know any better,” she said. After 
this I will never fast or do anything of that 
sort without letting you know it.” 

^^Had I been a fervent Catholic,” thought 
the mother, ^^she would not have done such 
things without consulting me. Poor child! 
I fear that I am not all to her that a 
perfect mother should be.” 

A little after mid-day, Mr. Merton, who 
had been growing moodier as the time drew 
near to the hour appointed for meeting the 
cashier, called for his coat and cane. 

^^What! going out to-day, John?” cried 
his wife, a feeling of vague uneasines 
creeping over her. 


126 


Ada Merton, 


^‘Yes, Mary,^’ with as much lightness as 
he could assume, have a — eh — eh — a 
business engagement to attend to.’’ 

With a heavy heart, she accompanied 
him to the hall door. She longed to give 
him one caution ; but she feared his anger. 
Oh, if she could but muster up courage for 
those few words ! She looked up to his face 
wistfully, as he turned to go ; and her hopes 
rose as she noticed how pleasantly he smiled 
on her. He remarked her wistful look, and 
paused on the threshold. 

^^Well, Mary, what is it you wish to say?” 

‘^John, dear, don’t, — 0, do not drink 
anything.” 

She never forgot the look of fury that 
transformed his countenance: without an- 
swering a word, he turned on his heel ; but 
she caught his arm and clung to it. 

Don’t leave me in this fashion, John,” 
she cried pleadingly. The proud man with 
an effort restrained himself, and in that 
moment of hesitation, it flashed through 
his mind that possibly he might never return 
to his family. 

^Wou are right, Mary,” he answered. 


Ada Merton. 127 

have never yet parted in anger, nor 
shall we to-day. Where is Ada?’’ 

Ada was just descending the stairs. 

^^Why, papa, to-day is Sunday; and 
Easter Sunday too,” she said. ^Wou musn’t 
leave us to-day.” 

^^But I must, though, so good bye, Ada,” 
and to the astonishment of his wife, he 
raised the child in his arms, and embracing 
her with unusual tenderness, held her to 
his breast for several minutes. 

^ ^Perhaps,” he was thinking, shall 
never see her again.” Then with a gesture 
of adieu, he closed the door, and with it he 
closed out all love and peace ; for his mind 
now turned to thoughts of revenge. With 
a darkening brow, he made his way to the 
Fair Grrounds, but the thought, ^ ^perhaps, 
I shall never see her again,” rang in his 
heart like a prophetic dirge. Once he was 
prompted to turn back ; but he crushed the 
impulse and went on. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Like one, that on a lonesome road, 

Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round, walks on 
And», turns no more his head. 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 


— Coleridge. 


WO o’clock of that eventful Sunday 



i afternoon arrived ; but there was one 
opponent only at the designated meeting 
place. An hour passed, then another, and 
still no new arrival. Mr. Merton grew 
impatient, and strode up and down a path 
beside a shady grove, furious at the delay. 

At length despairing of a meeting, he 
repaired, to reheve the monotony, to the 
wayside inn, and ordering a bottle of wine, 
seated himself at a table. Standing at the 
counter, were a few well-to-do looking men 
engaged, if one could judge by their looks, 
in an exciting conversation . At the entrance 
of the new-comer, they paused for a moment 
in their talk, but after surveying him, con- 
tinued the interesting theme. At first, Mr. 


(128) 


Ada Merton. 


129 


Merton was so buried in his own thoughts, 
that their words fell idly upon his ear. 
Suddenly his face changed, and he was aU 
attention. 

^^They say he^s hidden at Florissant,’^ 
said one. These were the words that brought 
Mr. Merton into a listening attitude. 

^ ^That’s strange,” chimed in another; 
^^for he told me the very day after the 
break, that he’d stay and face the music.” 

^^Yes,” answered the first speaker, ^^but it 
appears that some one sent him a threatening 
message yesterday — blood, knives, pistols, 
and that sort of thing — and being uncom- 
monly weak in the nerves, he’s run away.” 

Merton concluded that they were speaking 
of the cashier, and so great was his excite- 
ment while listening that he unconsciously 
drained glass after glass. The speakers 
were branching ofi to some other subject, 
when he arose, walked up to them, and 
fixing eyes, that bespoke intense passion, 
upon one of the informants gasped out: — 

^^Sir, pardon me; did you allude to the 
cashier of the Bender’s Bank?” 

^^The same, sir” answered the man after 
a moment’s pause. 


130 


Ada Merton. 


Without noticing the significant glances 
which the men exchanged, Merton abruptly 
left the tavern. There was no going back 
now. He must set out for Florissant, im- 
mediately; but it would not do to return 
home for his things ; for his wife was already 
sufficiently alarmed. Walking rapidly to 
Easton Avenue, he took a street car, stepping 
off at the first livery stable it passed. 

horse and buggy, till to morrow 
morning — the fastest horse youVe got,’^ he 
said handing his card to the hostler, who 
upon reading it, touched his hat respectfully, 
and bustled off to execute the commission. 

After a delay which seemed interminable, 
the hostler delivered the reins into his hands. 
Springing into the buggy impatiently, Mer- 
ton gave the horse a sharp cut, and started 
at break-neck speed. 

The astonished hostler strained his eyes 
after the fast receding vehicle, scratched his 
head, shook it, and then remarked: — 

^^Well, if that ere hoss comes back right 
side up, I’m another, I am. But Mr. 
Merton’s able to foot the damages — that’s 
one consolation.” 

Long before he had concluded his soldo- 


Ada Merton, 


131 


quy, the object of it was out of sight. On 
he drove spinning over the road till city 
houses were succeeded by suburban resi- 
dences, and ghmpses of woods flashed before 
him; on he drove till cottage, garden, and 
field passed like spectres before his eyes; 
on he drove, madly overtaking and passing 
other equipages, the occupants of which 
would often rein in their horses, and gaze 
wonderingly at the fine-looking gentleman, 
with the demon ^s glare in his wild eyes. 
The sun was low before he gained Florissant ; 
but he thought not of this. Stopping at 
the first house on the outskirts of thevilage, 
he made enquiries for the cashier ; but the 
inmates knew nothing of the man. At 
every house in the vicinity, he repeated his 
question only to obtain the same answer. 
Finally, he gained the village tavern. Its 
keeper, a stout man of about forty, looked 
at the questioner suspiciously. 

Never heern of him, before, was his 
answer. There were several men in the 
room, listeners to the conversation. One 
of them stole out with Mr. Merton, and 
whispered to him ; — 


132 


Ada Merton. 


“Drive away from the inn a little, an’ I 
reckon I ken tell you somethin’.” 

Mr. Merton drove further on, and awaited 
the man, a shabby looking fellow, whose 
countenance was by no means of a kind to 
inspire confidence. 

“Stranger, if you want to know whar’ 
that man is, it must be wuth your knowin.” 

“Certainly it is,” answered Merton un- 
conscious of the other’s drift. “Tell me 
quick.” 

“I don’t know but what it may be wuth 
five dollars to you.” 

“0!” answered Merton, fumbling in his 
pocket, and producing a bill: “There now, 
and for heaven’s sake be quick.” 

“Well, that ’ere cashier, is expected to be 
back to that house to-morrow mornin’, but 
he’s bribed the fellur as runs the place not 
to let it out.” 

Not waiting to thank his informant, 
Merton returned to the inn. 

“See here,” he said to the landlord, “step 
aside one moment, I want to see you about 
something important. ” The landlord’s eye 
kindled with speculation, and, rubbing his 


Ada Merton, 133 

hands briskly, he retired with his man to a 
corner remote from the crowd. 

friend, said Merton, want to 
stay here all night, but very privately. You 
wont mention my being here to any one, 
will youT’ And to add emphasis to his 
request, he pressed an eagle into the land- 
lord's palm. 

^^All k^rect, sir. An’ now I come to 
think of it, the man you enquired for is to 
be here before to-morrow noon.” What 
a wondrous quickener of the memory is 
money. 

The night passed quietly, and next morn- 
ing found Mr. Merton up fresh and early 
awaiting his enemy. As it neared noon his 
anxiety increased, and he began drinking 
heavily. Noon arrived, but no cashier. 
Mr. Merton still continued to ply his glass, 
and one hour later, he was buried in a 
heavy sleep. 

How long he slept he knew not ; but he 
was awakened suddenly by some one shak- 
ing him violently. 

Starting to his feet, and leaning on the 
table for support, he found himself facing 
the shabby man who had first volunteered 


134 


Ada Merton. 


his evidence. Stranger/^ he said, ‘^you’d 
better git around lively. The chap you are 
after ^s ben here, and has seed you, and is 
now making tracks for Ferguson.’^ 

‘‘Gro and get my buggy, quick,’’ said Mr. 
Merton hoarsely. His head was dizzy, and 
there was a strange ringing in his ears; 
but he was sufficiently conscious to follow 
the bent of his revenge. 

A minute later, he was climbing into the 
buggy; but so unsteady was he, that it 
required the help of his disinterested in- 
formant. 

^^Be keerful stranger, keep your hand 
steady. That hoss is a leetle too lively for 
you.” 

He had scarcely spoken, when Merton, 
turning the horse towards Ferguson, raised 
his whip, and brought it down with all his 
strength upon the poor animal’s back. The 
horse reared violently, and so sudden was 
the jerk, that the reins slipped from the 
driver’s hands. Affrighted still more by 
the dragging reins, the horse lost all control, 
and started off at full speed. Mr. Merton 
caught hold of the dash-board and held on 
mechanically. About a hundred yards down 


Ada Merton. 


135 


the road was a small railed bridge, crossing 
a stream. Quicker than words can tell it, 
they had arrived there, and as the runaway 
swerved to one side, one of the buggy ^s 
wheels was caught by the railing, and the 
sudden shock threw Mr. Merton violently 
from the vehicle. Before the horse could 
extricate himself, several men had caught 
his bridle, and were calming him by patting 
him gently. But Mr. Merton moved not 
from the place where he had fallen. The 
partially-healed wound upon his head had 
again been opened, and he was senseless. 
They carried him to the inn, where it 
required many hours to revive him. 

The next day he was too weak and dizzy 
to leave the inn. He was prompted more 
than once to send word to his wife, but 
pride restrained him; he would keep the 
shameful accident forever as a secret. 

Wednesday afternoon had come, and he 
was much better. But it would not do to 
start for home till all the marks of his 
bruises had disappeared. About three 
o^ clock, he fell into a troubled slumber. 
Dreams crowded upon him. He was again 
in quest of the cashier ; and had pursued 


136 


Ada Merton. 


him through a wild country. Suddenly his 
enemy could flee no further, for he had 
come to the brow of a precipice. ^^IVe got 
you, now, you villain, cried the pursuer. 
But what was his horror and dismay, when 
the cashier suddenly lifted Ada from the 
ground, raised her in his arms, and held 
her over the precipice. He could see the 
calm, sweet look of his daughter, as she 
stretched out her hands, entreating him to 
come and save her. Suddenly the dream 
changed. Ada was lost in a trackless desert. 
He wandered about through the blinding 
sand in quest of her; and at times would 
catch a glimpse of her white garments. But 
ere he reached her, a great mountain of 
sand rose between them, and he would again 
be baffled. Worn out, finally by the search, 
he threw himself upon the sand, and fell 
into a sort of dose. He was aroused by the 
voice he so well knew. ‘ H am not lost, papa : 
it is you who are lost. Come home, papa.’’ 

The loving, little face, sorrowful, but 
bright with tears then bent down to his, 
and imprinted a soft kiss upon his cheek. 

Then he awoke. He started up in bed, 
and as his eyes opened, he seemed to see Ada 


Ada Merton. 


137 


thinning into the darkness of the evening, 
and he still felt the warm kiss upon his 
cheek. 

Grod,^’ he cried involuntarily, ^^was 
Ada really beside me? Did she say, ^Papa, 
come home? ^ 

^^John Merton,^’ said a man who was 
sitting beside his bed, and whom he had 
not noticed before, ^^no one has been here 
but myseK. Do you know me, John?’’ 

^^Why, Clarke, how came you here?” 
chanced to hear that you were in this 
inn,” answered Mr. Clarke, who was an old 
friend, ^^and I considered it my business to 
see you at once. John, John, my dear 
fellow, is it possible that you have left your 
wife and child, alone and unprotected, 
living, as you do, upon the very bounds of 
the city?” 

John pressed his hand to his forehead; 
the voice of his child was still ringing in 
his ears. 

^^Yes, it is possible; and I am a brute, 
Clarke, as sure as we are in this room; 
I know that I am needed at home. Ada 
has called me, my hand is unsteady, my 
brain is whirling ; for the sake of our old 


138 


Ada Merton. 


friendship drive me home; and hurry, 
hurry, for my brain is burning with anxiety. 

Mr. Clarke, as he listened to these earnest 
words, grew still more grave. A few 
moments later, he helped the anxious father 
into a buggy, and then jumping in himself 
gave free rein to the horse. And the animal 
gathering all its energy bounded away into 
the night, as though he too were affected 
by some dread presentiment. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Then like tired breezes didst thou sink to rest, 

Nor one, one pang the awful change confessed. 
Death stole in silence o’er that lovely face, 

And touched each feature with a new-born grace; 
On cheek and brow unearthly beauty lay, 

And told that life’s poor cares had passed away ! 

In my last hour, be Heaven so kind to me ! 

I ask no more but this — to die like thee. 

— Sprague. 

T he afternoon when Mr. Merton left his 
home was most melancholy to his wife. 
It was becoming plainer to her every day 
that one prop of her happiness had been 
removed — perhaps forever. No longer 
could her mind dwell with delight on the 
kindest of husbands; no longer could she 
count upon his prompt return at the con- 
clusion of his business engagements; no 
longer could she listen with pleasure to his 
droll remarks; for his gay genius was depart- 
ing with his sober habits. In proportion 
as her love for her husband weakened, did 
her affection for Ada strengthen. 

( 139 ) 


140 


Ada Merton. 


The hours had worn slowly on, till the 
clock marked eight of the evening; and 
they were still waiting for the familiar foot- 
step. Ada, noticing her mother^ s distress, did 
all in her power to make time pass pleasantly. 
She played her hvehest melodies upon the 
piano, and sang over and over the ^^Eve of 
St. Agnes;’’ and as her mother listened, 
and thought of the child’s generous efforts, 
she felt her whole heart going out to her 
daughter. 

^^Ada, come here, my child.” 

When Ada, leaving the piano, had nestled 
in her mother’s bosom, the mother pressed 
her warmly to her heart, as though some 
one were seeking to wrest the child away. 

^^Ada, Ada, my child, you are my only 
love, now. Without you this earth would 
be a hell.” 

mamma!” cried the child deprecat- 

ingly. 

tell you, my child,” pursued the madly 
doting mother, I would rather suffer all 
the hideous torments I have ever read or 
heard of, than be separated from you for a 
day. O Ada, you are my whole joy, my 
whole happiness.” 


Ada Merton. 


141 


The child was astonished at her mother^ s 
almost incoherent passionateness ; she knew 
not that the human heart must ever have 
some God ; that nothing but the Infinite can 
satisfy its cravings; and that if the heart 
recklessly spurn the Infinite, it must turn 
with an unappeasable and ever unsatisfied 
hunger to the finite. 

^^Mamma,^^ she said ^‘I know that you 
love me very much: why canT you love 
God too?^^ 

^Gt is out of the question, my child. If 
you could but read my mind you would 
readily understand me. It may be, my 
darling, that, as you once said, I am blind 
and cannot see the fight ; but certain it is, my 
dearest, that I cannot, even for a moment, 
firmly believe that there is a God. But to 
tell you the truth, Ada, since the occurrences 
of the last few days, I almost wish I could 
believe.’^ 

^^0, I^m so glad you say that,^^ said Ada; 
^Gor if you wish to believe, God will surely 
in his great, great love open your eyes.^^ 

^ Gt is dreadful to five this way, ’ ’ continued 
the mother. ^^Your poor papa is becoming 
so unhappy, darling. 


142 


Ada Merton, 


^Toor papa,^’ sighed Ada, ^^Grod doesn’t 
seem to grant my prayers quickly ; but I am 
sure that you and papa will soon see things 
in the true way. ’ ’ 

For some time they sat in silence, and 
motionless save only for the passionate 
caresses of the mother. Finally, Mrs. 
Merton said: — 

^^Ada, your voice sounded strange this 
evening; you seem to be weak and tired.” 

^^Yes, mamma, I have felt a little weak 
for the past three days, and there’s a pain 
in my side. I feel very tired to-night.” 

^^Yes, my dearest, and I noticed you 
coughing a little. Let me take you to bed, 
this instant ; your health is much too pre- 
cious to be wasted in night-watches for your 
father,^ ^ There was a tone of bitterness in 
the last two words. 

Ada begged to stay up, so fearful was she 
that her mother would be overwhelmed by 
sadness, if left alone. But the mother was 
firm. She helped the child to bed and, 
kissing her with even more passionateness 
than she had before evinced, left the child 
for the night. No sooner was Ada alone. 


Ada Merton. 143 

than rising to her knees in bed she com- 
menced her night prayers. 

Her very heart seemed to speak in behalf 
of father and mother. She passed almost 
an hour in this position, and lay down, not 
that she had finished her prayer, but from 
very weakness. The pain in her side con- 
tinued to increase, and she experienced a 
sense of weakness growing upon her. But 
her mind seemed to become more acute. 
The slightest sound arrested her attention, 
for she could not turn her thoughts from 
her father out in the chilly night. Then 
fiashed through her imagination, the vision 
of her mother, sitting tearless, alone, sor- 
rowful by the hearth. 

^^Poor mamma, she thought) ^^how 
unhappy she must now be. If she believed 
in Giod, she would have some one to whom 
she might now speak her sorrows.’^ 

The thought of her mother^ s loneliness 
seemed to haunt her brain : she could not 
dismiss it : the image of her mother alone 
and weeping without one heart near by to 
sympathize so clung to her, that at last she 
resolved to arise, and bear her company. 
Putting on the beautiful garments of the 


144 


Ada Merton. 


morning, she stole gently towards her 
mother^ s room. The night had grown very 
chill, and, as she walked along the damp 
hall, a shiver passed through her frame, 
and the feeling of weakness increased. 

The door reached, she stood for a moment 
with her hand upon the knob, doubting 
whether she should enter. Suddenly she 
felt a difficulty in respiration, the pain in 
the side became violent, and her head grew 
dizzy. Throwing open the door, she stag- 
gered into the room. 

^^Mamma, help me — I am ill.^’ This was 
all she could say. 

Ada!^’ cried the agonized mother, 
catching the child in her arms, ^^tell me 
quick, darhng, what is the matter?^’ and 
she laid the child tenderly on her bed. 

find it hard to breathe, mamma, and 
the pain at my side, and I^m dizzy. Ada^s 
voice had a strange ring in it, and this 
symptom frightened Mrs. Merton most of all. 

^ ^Maggie, Maggie, she called out, going 
to the hallway. In a short time, the maid 
appeared. 

^^Gro, Maggie, quick, quick, call Bob, and 
tell him to run for life, and get the nearest 


Ada Merton. 


145 


doctor — O my darling, my child,’’ she cried 
hastening hack to Ada, ^^my child — you 
must not, you shall not he ill.” 

^^Poor mamma,” Ada murmured, and 
tears of pity were on her cheek. ^^Gret me 
my crucifix, mamma.” 

^^No, dearest, I cannot leave you. Do 
you breathe easier yet, my child P’ 

— I think not, mamma.” 

Maggie just then entered the room with 
the patient’s crucifix. Ada clutched it 
tightly, and kissed it with love beaming 
upon her face. 

^^Mamma,” she whispered, am very 
happy; hut I believe I am going to die. 
Send for a priest.” 

The words were scarcely spoken, when 
Maggie hastened from the room ; the poor 
mother grew ashen pale, and threw herself 
upon her knees, beside the fair child. 

^‘Come, my darling, don’t think of death. 
— O God, O God! when will the doctor 
come?” In solemn moments the name of 
God will rise to the unbeliever’s lip. 

Ten minutes later, a doctor arrived post 
haste. After a brief examination, he shook 
his head. 


146 


Ada Merton. 


‘‘0 doctor, what is it? tell me, quick,’’ 
Mrs. Merton entreated, as she caught his 
arm, and fixed her eyes upon him as though 
to read his thoughts. 

^^Be calm, madam. — God help you; is 
she an only child? — But she may recover. It 
is a case of aggravated pneumonia. She 
has been suffering from it slightly for some 
days back, very probably; for her case is 
more advanced than I generally find at the 
first visit.” 

May none of us ever see such a look of 
despair as settled upon Mrs. Merton’s face. 
Pneumonia ! it was a disease terrible in its 
ravages that year ! 

The doctor assisted by Maggie did all 
that could be done, while the mother with 
that look of despair which never changed 
stood like a marble statue, her eyes bent 
upon the fragile child. 

Presently a priest entered the room. 

^^Mamma,” whispered Ada,‘Hhis Com- 
munion will be for you and papa.” 

At sight of the priest, Mrs. Merton moved 
towards him with an angry gesture; but 
the appealing glance of Ada changed her 


Ada Merton. 147 

purpose, and with a moan she allowed him 
to do his work alone. 

It was already nearing the dawn, and, for 
the first time since the child^s sickness, she 
thought of her husband. 

she said, ^^go and scour the town, 
and bring that man to his daughter. 

When Mrs. Merton entered the room 
again she saw upon Ada^s face the perfect 
repose of tranquil happiness. 

Monday and Tuesday passed slowly ; but 
the mother never for a moment left the side 
of the suffering child ; never for a moment 
relaxed her watchfulness. Often Maggie 
begged her to rest for a short time, but to 
no avail. Sister Felicitas shared the poor 
lady^s vigil, and, despite their many dis- 
parities, a silent love grew up between them. 

It was about seven o^ clock on Wednesday 
evening. Ada, whose life was fast ebbing 
away, was lying in a sort of slumber. 
Beside her were Maggie, Sister Felicitas, 
and the mother, all three watching the 
child^s slightest movement. Of a sudden, 
Ada’s face began to change; first it looked 
sad, and then affectionate, and finally she 
opened her eyes, and gazed about her. 


148 


Ada Merton. 


papa hereT’ she said. 

^ ^ Ada, my darling, are you suffering pain ? ^ ^ 
asked the heart-broken mother, resting her 
cheek against the face of her child. 

^^Yery httle, mamma. I thought papa 
was near me, and in trying to touch him I 
awoke. But I will see him some day, please 
God — but not here mamma. Are you listen- 
ing? — are you near me?^^ 

^ ‘Speak, my angel; I am here.^’ 

“Then tell poor papa that I leave him 
my — dearest love.^’ She spoke with diffi- 
culty; but the light of a happiness rarely 
experienced in this world shone upon her 
hke a glory. 

At times. Sister Felicitas would raise the 
crucifix to the dying child’s lips, and with a 
look of gratitude, she would kiss it with 
inexpressible tenderness. The mother was 
speechless with agony ; but not a tear started 
from her eyes. She stood statue-like, gazing 
as one who looks upon all that is precious 
for the last time. Suddenly a divine bright- 
ness came over the child’s features; she 
rose half-way in bed, looking with eager 
eyes as upon some vision. Then turning 


Ada Merton, 149 

towards her mother, she smiled sweetly, 
and said; — 

^^Mamma, I^m going home. — Jesus! 
Mary!^’ 

At that moment a hasty step was heard 
upon the stairs; but when Mr. Merton 
stepped breathless into the room, he saw a 
nun upon her knees, Maggie crying bitterly, 
and his wife gazing fixedly upon the body 
of his darling Ada ! 


CHAPTEE XVI. 


The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree 
I planted ; they have torn me, and I bleed ; 

I should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. — Byron. 

F oe a moment Mr. Merton stood like one 
bereft of bis senses. The room seemed 
to turn round and round; lights gleamed 
before his eyes; and his very heart stood 
still. Then there flashed through his brain 
the remembrance of the God whom he had 
so often mocked ; whom he had so bitterly 
denied; who now turned upon him with 
the power of His right arm. 

^ ^My God ! my God ! ^ ’ he moaned, striking 
his forehead with his hands. 

For the first time the statue-like woman 
turned from the dead child, and flxing her 
large, tearless eyes upon him, broke into a 
loud, harsh, grating laugh. 

^^My God, my God,^^ she repeated with 
disdain; you, you come herewith talk 
of God; you come to mock me with your 
lying tongue. Look there she went on 

(150) 


Ada Merton, 


151 


pointing to the body; ^^do you see that 
lovely form ; that fair brow, never yet ruffled 
by an impure, an unholy thought; those 
lips that smiled with a beauty I never, never 
more shall see? Where now is the little life 
that was worth a million such as yours? 
Gone, gone, and gone forever. All that 
beauty is but clay, earth, and the worms 
shall devour it. Never more shall Ada^s 
loving heart beat against mine ; never more 
shall her happy voice bring joy to my bosom ; 
never more shall her dear smile, her warm 
kiss bear joy and sweetness to my bereaved 
heart — for she is gone, gone! 0, it is too 
cruel ; it cannot be. Such a noble nature 
was not made for a few brief years. She is 
not dead — Ada, my darling, my love, my 
child, my only child, speak to me. Let 
your voice but whisper, so that I know you 
live. — 0, it is too cruel — Ada, my child, 
my child speak to me.^^ And she threw 
herself beside the lifeless form, and covered 
the serene brow with kisses. 

^^0 Mary, my wife, I deserve it all; it is 
my fault, cried the agonized, humiliated 
husband. ^^But be calm, dear Mary: the 
child is dead.^’ 


152 


Ada Merton, 


she answered turning upon him in 
aphrensy of rage, ^‘‘you talk of being calm! 
you, who have taught me that death is an 
eternal separation! Away from me, you 
accursed one. She is not dead; and you 
who have taken away from me my Grod, 
would now take away the lovehest heart 
that ever beat. — Speak to me, Ada! Ada, 
my child speak to me.^’ 

Sister Felicitas now came forward, and 
laying her hand upon Mrs. Merton^s brow, 
led the poor mother to a chair; and the 
husband, fearing that his presence might 
excite his wife to madness, bent one longing 
lingering look upon the child^s angelic 
features, and repaired to his own room — 
but not to rest. 

Up and down he walked, ^ ^reaping the 
whirlwind he had so carefully sown.^^ In 
his ears rang a text of scripture that had 
impressed him in his early years, ^^Have 
pity on me, have pity on me, at least you, 
my friends, for the hand of the Lord hath 
touched me.’’ His pride was shattered, 
and in the supreme bitterness of the moment, 
his eyes were fully opened to the light. 

^^Yes,” he bitterly acknowledged, have 


Ada Merton, 


153 


fought against Grod ; I have tried to despise 
Him ; I have cast Him from my heart, and 
endeavored to root Him from my mind ; I 
have shattered the faith of a wife; and 
now I find that His arm is not shortened. 
— My Grod, my God, have pity on me ; I 
am not worthy to breathe thy hallowed 
name. — 0 sainted Ada, pray for your trai- 
torous father.’’ And he sank upon his 
knees, and bent his head, and prayed, with 
the blinding tears running down his cheek, 
for forgiveness, for peace, for resignation. 

He was aroused by the entrance of Maggie, 
whose face was marked by an expression 
worse even than grief. 

^^0, Mr. Merton,” she cried, ^^for God’s 
sake come to your wife; she laughs, and 
smiles, and insists on sending for more 
doctors, and says that Ada is sleeping too 
long.” 

His darkest forboding was realized. His 
wife, too, was in danger of being taken from 
him; but by a still more horrid monster 
than death. Entering the solemn apart- 
ment, he saw the mother still gazing fondly 
on the corpse, and saying; — 


154 


Ada Merton. 


^^You are sleeping too long, Ada. Ada, 
my child, my child, speak to me.’’ 

At the noise of his footfall, she turned 
and fronted him, without, it would seem, 
recognizing that it was her husband. 

^^Kind sir,” she said, ^df you have pity 
for me, go and get the best doctors of the 
city. She may still be cured.” 

^^Mary, my dear wife,” answered the 
hapless man, ^^can you not see that our 
child is dead?” 

’Tis a lie — a black, black lie. Leave 
me, sir, leave me, and get the best physi- 
cians. — Ada, my child, my child, speak to 
me.” 

Mr. Merton, thinking that the testimony 
of the best medical experts might gain her 
belief, resolved on fulfilling her behest. It 
was early dawn, when he left the house; 
and as the morning sun covered the earth 
with beauty, it shone upon a tearless mother, 
still crying: — 

^^Ada, my child, my child, speak to me.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Lay her i’ the earth, 

And from her pure and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring. — Shakspeare. 

T he physicians held their useless consul- 
tation, and assured Mrs. Merton that 
the child was dead. But not a tear dimmed 
the mother^s eye. She threw herself beside 
her child, and from time to time moaned in 
a manner that would touch the most callous 
heart. She was insensible to all about her, 
one person only excepted, and that was her 
husband. 

If he entered the room she would kindle 
with fury, denouncing him as the destroyer 
of her happiness. 

Dressed in her first communion clothes, 
and with a fresh chaplet of roses, lilies and 
violets about her brow, Ada lay in her 
coffin, the serene, youthful, tranquil face 
still seeming to triumph over the destroying 
hand of death. 

Beside the coffin was Sister Felicitas 
looking with tearful love upon ^Hhe angel 

( 165 ) 


156 


Ada Merton. 


of the convent/^ One by one, during the 
day, her little school-mates, robed for the 
occasion in their white communion dresses, 
entered the room to take one last, regretful 
look at the face of her whom in life they 
had so venerated. 

The unhappy father stood without, for he 
feared to madden his wife by appearing 
before her. The previous night of suffering 
had marked his features with an unsparing 
hand. As each httle girl stepped from the 
apartment of the dead into the hall, he 
would stay her, and ask humbly to be 
remembered in her prayers. 

Sister Felicitas was greatly alarmed at 
the condition of Mrs. Merton, who, since 
the preceding Sunday, had neither eaten 
anything nor taken a moment’s repose. 

^^My dear Madam,” she whispered, when 
the children had gone, ^ ^come, let me take you 
to your room for a while. Rest for an hour 
or so. It will refresh you wonderfully ; and 
then, no doubt, you will be able to weep.” 

The mother ceased moaning for the 
moment, and turning her burning eyes 
upon the nun, she said; — 

Tell me; is Ada dead?” 


Ada Merton, 


157 


^^Yes, Mrs. Merton, she is.^’ 

^^Then I shall never rest again/’ and 
moaning as before, she again addressed 
herself to the dead child. For another 
hour, she was motionless, and were it not 
for her moaning one would have been 
unable to discern in her any trace of life. 
Then raising her eyes to the nun, she again 
spoke; — 

^Ts my child dead forever?” 

^‘No, dear madam,” Sister Felicitas made 
answer; ^^she is in the glory of G-od even 
now, I trust, and at the last day, her body 
will again be joined fair and incorruptible 
to the pure spirit that made it be so beloved 
by us all in this poor life.” 

^^And do you believe in Giod?” 

^ ^Assuredly, madam.” 

Mrs. Merton peered around the room 
with suspicious eyes, as if fearing that she 
were watched, and whispered; — 

^^Where is God!” 

^ ^Everywhere, dear Madam. In Him we 
live, move and have our being.” 

The poor lady moaned, as she again 
sought Ada’s face, and muttered, ^Hf it 
were only so ; but I know it is false.” 


158 


Ada Merton. 


Saturday was the last sad day that was to 
see Ada’s mortal remains upon the face of 
the earth, and in the morning accompanied 
by friends, and all the children of the con- 
vent, the bereaved parents set out for 
Calvary cemetery. Mrs. Merton still evinced 
a loathing for her husband, and clung to 
Sister Felicitas. 

It was a beautiful morning of spring ; one 
of nature’s halcyon days; a day that would 
warm the blood of an old man till he felt 
young again; a day that ran riot in the 
early wealth of nature’s gifts. And the 
birds sang with such a sweet sense of new 
life. The very flowers seemed alive to the 
smiles of the sun. ^^But all things are dark 
to sorrow, ’ ’ and the childless mother, heeding 
neither flower nor bird, nor tree, nor field, 
strained her eyes eagerly after the white- 
plumed hearse and moaned; — 

^^Ada, my child, my child!” 

And now they stand around Ada’s last 
resting place; the mother leaning upon 
Sister Fehcitas; the father, looking pre- 
maturely old, standing opposite his wife, 
and beside the priest in attendance. While 
the rites of the dead are being performed, a 


Ada Merton. 159 

little bird on a tree beside the grave is 
making the place vocal with his music. 

Already the last prayers have been recited, 
the coffin has been lowered, and the saddest 
sound that mortal ear knows, the dull thud 
of the dirt falhng upon the coffin, is 
heard. But one handful had fallen, when 
the mother releasing herself from the hold 
of Sister Fehcitas, and drawing a dagger 
(Mr. Merton remembered her promise now) 
said, in a voice unnaturally calm and clear ; — 

^^My child shall not be taken from me so ; 
stop your work, men, for I swear that I will 
stab the first man that covers my child from 
me forever. 

As she stood there with her large wildly- 
flashing eyes, her form drawn up to its full 
height, her determined face, and the jewelled 
hand clasping the dagger, a thrill of silent 
horror went through the assemblage. Some 
of the little children hid their faces. A dead 
silence, broken only by the singing of that 
one little bird, came over all. John Merton 
was the first to speak. 

^^Mary, my dear,^^ he cried in imploring 
accents, ^ ^forgive me for having so long and 
so cruelly deceived you. Ada is not gone 


160 


Ada Merton. 


forever ; but is at rest in Grod. Put away 
that dagger, Mary; you are unreasonably 
excited . W e shall soon meet our darhng’ ^ — 
his strong voice faltered as he spoke — ^dn 
a brighter world. 

^^Liar, fiend! screamed the wife; ‘^you 
dare to talk of Grod ; you dare to speak of 
Ada in a brighter land ; you who plucked 
the idea of Grod from my soul. You have 
taken my God from me, so that I shall 
never find Him again.’’ There was a pitiful 
sadness, the sadness of a broken heart, in 
these last words. 

^^Yes,” she continued in the midst of a 
painful silence, ^^you have taught me knowl- 
edge of good and evil — and may the day I 
first met you be accursed. Hypocrite, har, 
may no happiness ever again find place in 
your blackened heart. — And you tell me 
there is a God! Where is he? tell me that! 

0 God, O God, if I could but find you! ” 

tell you, Mary,” answered the stricken 
husband, acknowledge it before the 
world, I have cruelly, bitterly deceived you. 

1 was a madman, a fool ; and hke the fool 
1 said in my heart there is no God. But 
never did my mind fully consent to what I 


Ada Merton. 


161 


taught. Trust me, Mary, never, never for 
one moment did I fully believe what I taught 
you to believe but too well.’’ 

Mrs. Merton made him no answer*, Sister 
Fehcitas was whispering to her gently ; and 
Mr. Merton signed to the grave diggers, 
who were staring with amazement at the 
unwonted scene, to continue with their work. 
But they had not fairly begun, when the 
mother sprang forward dagger in hand. 
With incredible quickness, Mr. Merton was 
beside her, and stayed her hand in the very 
act of striking the nearest grave-digger. 

She struggled violently with her husband, 
and before he had wrested the dagger from 
her grasp, she had inflicted upon him several 
shght wounds. Then, as if iiispired by a 
new idea, she attempted to jump into the 
open grave. But they stayed her. 

^^Let me alone,” she shrieked, cannot 
find God here; I will go with Ada, and 
perhaps in her company I may meet Him.” 

She became more violent ; strong but kind 
hands were laid upon her, and she was held 
fast till the grave was filled. But it was 
evident to all that she was, for the time, 
insane — nay, a maniac. In the intervals 


162 


Ada Merton, 


of her mad stragglings, she would stare 
around wildly, and cry out. ; 

^^Glod! Where is He? They have taken 
Him away from me, and I shall never find 
Him more!^^ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The loppM tree in time may grow again, 

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower, 

The sorriest wight may find release from pain. 

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower. 

— Southwell. 

O there is never sorrow of heart 
That shall lack a timely end, 

If but to God we turn, and ask 
Of Him to be our friend. 

Wordsworth. 

B itter thoughts, useless regrets, gnaw- 
ing remorse and dreadful fears tortured 
the sleepless brain of John Merton on the 
night succeeding the scene at Calvary ceme- 
tery. Mary Merton had lost her reason, 
and was now under the kindly charge of 
Sister Fehcitas, who seemed to exercise a 
most soothing influence over the unhappy 
woman. Her last oft-repeated cry still rang 
in his ears; — 

^Tell me, tell me, where is my Grod. 
They have hidden Him from me, and I shall 
never see Him more.’’ And now without 
even the presence of his wife, the wretched 
man felt with stinging consciousness that 

(163) 


164 


Ada Merton, 


he was alone in the world. But could he 
not turn to GrOd? This was the thought he 
had been debating since Ada^s death. With 
the dreadful effects of his unbelief coming 
home to him in the very present, his sins 
seemed to his troubled imagination too 
heinous for pardon. The enemy of God, 
fearing to lose his soul in one way, was 
resolved to gain it in another. ^^Yes,^^ 
cried the evil voice, ^^your happiness is 
gone ; you would be foolish to ask God for 
help ; for you have treated Him too badly. 
Make away with yourseff, and do not wait 
for more troubles.’^ The man trembled at 
the thought ; still it had a sort of fascination 
for him. The most dangerous hour in Mr. 
Merton^s hfe had now come. But a new 
saint was praying for him, doubtless. How 
long his dangerous reverie would have con- 
tinued it is impossible to say, had not 
Maggie entered the room. Maggie noticed 
his despondency immediately ; and she felt 
that her master might now begin a new 
life, if she but conducted her part success- 
fully. The kind woman’s eyes were red 
and swollen with constant weeping ; in her 
hand she held a book. 


Ada Merton. 


165 


^^Mr. Merton, my dear master/’ she began 
with a countenance in which smiles and 
tears were holding a doubtful contest for 
supremacy; ^^Mr. Merton, my dear master, 
Grod forgive me for all the hard things, 1 
have been sayin’ against you, such as callin’ 
you a grand Turk, the great Mogul and 
such hke. There was a time when I really 
did be hoping that the hand of God would 
fall heavy on you — but I never thought 
that you’d be made so miserable. You’ve 
been a good master to me, Mr. Merton, and 
I would do anything to serve you ; and you 
may be thinking it bold, God love you, but 
I’ve come to ask you to read this little 
chapter, which I have left open.” And she 
laid the book on the table at his elbow. 
know how you feel, sir, but I know too 
that if you wait a httle, you’ll see your way 
clear — which I’d like to see anybody say 
anything against it.” 

Maggie was shrewd enough to perceive 
that her visit was not wholly unwelcome, 
and acting on the principle of letting well- 
enough alone, curtsied out of the room. 
Merton, with no little curiosity, picked up 
the book from the table, and read. It was 


166 


Ada Merton. 


the chapter on the prodigal son ; and as his 
eye ran along the lines, streams of softening 
grace poured into his soul. Tears came to 
his eyes at the thought of so merciful a Grod. 
Over and over again, he read the sublime 
chapter; and at each reading he gained 
fresh courage and strength. At length he 
put the book down, resolving that he too 
would arise and go to his Father’s house; 
and forthwith hke a suddenly remembered 
dream, there came back to him, glowing in 
the rosy light of hope, the memories of his 
boyhood’s faith and innocence. Bright 
visions of old faces, old friends, old scenes 
returned with the vividness of yesterday. 
He remembered, too, how previous to 
departing for the non-sectarian school, he 
had paid a last visit to his teacher and 
father-confessor at the St. Louis Univer- 
sity; how the good father had earnestly 
warned him to guard his faith; how in 
shaking hands at parting, the priest had 
said, ^^John, my boy, the day may come 
when you will be in deep sorrow ; sorrow 
of a kind that no earthly consolation 
can assuage; but remember, as long as 
I live, you shall find a friend who will 


Ada Merton. 167 

do all that can be done to be of service 
to you/^ 

This priest still lived ; now indeed, an old 
man; but hale, active and with the same 
warm heart. Many years ago, he had called 
on Mr. Merton ; but the fallen Cathohc had 
shown him such marked coldness as to 
imply that further intercourse would be 
disagreeable. Now, however, the humbled 
man was resolved to open himself entirely 
to the good father. Before Mr. Merton 
had concluded his reverie, day was shining 
into his apartment. Rising to leave he 
called Maggie to him. 

^ ^Maggie, he said, ^^you have done me a 
great — a very great service. One thing 
more I ask of you — that you pray fervently 
for me to obtain the grace of making a 
good confession. And as Mr. Merton 
turned from her, Maggie cried for very joy. 

Half an hour later, a haggard, care-worn 
man presented himself at the St. Louis 
University, and called for Father Elliott. 
After a short delay, there entered the parlor 
an aged but tall and stately gentleman, with 
a venerable benevolent face. He recognized 
Mr. Merton, and with a smile so genial that 


168 


Ada Merton, 


Ms visitor felt in better cheer, he grasped 
Ms hand in both of his own. 

^^Why John, John! How delighted I am 
to see you, old fellow. I have been awaiting 
you for years, my dear boy. So you’re in 
trouble? But come right up to my room, 
John. I know part of your story already. 
But I’ll warrant before you leave me, that 
you’ll look much happier than you do now. ” 
am sure. Father,” answered John, 
^^that you will be able to hghten my load. 
Indeed, I now feel the same confidence in 
you, as when I was your little scholar.” 

In great troubles, there is notMng that 
so hghtens the heart, as to have a sympa- 
thizing friend to whom one can unbosom 
oneself: and as John Merton told his sad 
tale to his genial confessor, every word 
seemed to roll a burden from his bosom. 
Several hours had fiown by before he had 
come to an end, and received absolution. 

^^My dear sir,” said the Father, ^^be 
patient for a week, say till next Sunday, 
and I am sure, by that time I will be able 
to give you a good account of your wife. 
In the meantime, don’t go near her; but 
leave all to me. Soon, you will perceive in 


Ada Merton, 


169 


these apparent calamities the finger of our 
good Father, who in His mercy by taking 
your child pure and untainted from this 
world, will have led you and your wife to 
the true Church. Here now is a book, 
which I wish you to read carefully. And 
next Wednesday afternoon, mind, you are 
to come here and stop with us till Sunday 
— a retreat you know, in preparation for a 
new hfe. Than on Sunday, you will be 
well prepared, please Grod, for receiving into 
your heart the divine Saviour who has shown 
you so much mercy. Now, John, I will see 
to Mrs. Merton immediately. Grood bye, 
my dear fellow, — you know where my room 
is now; and I expect to see you often. 

True to his promise. Father Elliott set 
out immediately for the convent. He had 
formed a theory to the effect that as Mrs. 
Merton ^s seeming insanity had been caused 
by the idea that Ada had fallen back into 
the nothingness whence she came, so 
she could be restored to reason, by being 
led gradually to believe in the immortality 
of the soul, the existence of Grod, and the 
life of the blessed. Once that she might 


170 


Ada Merton. 


liope to meet Ada again, her mind would 
become tranquilized. 

Admitted into her presence, he found the 
poor lady pacing restlessly up and down 
her narrow apartment. 

^^0, sir,’^ she cried upon seeing him, 
^^can you tell me where God has hidden 
Himself? I have lost Him, and I fear He is 
gone forever.’’ 

The zealous priest answered her gently, 
and, by his kind but earnest manner, soon 
won her confidence. After a long conver- 
sation, he left her calmer, but still uncon- 
vinced. 

Day after day, he repeated his visits ; and 
insensibly preparing her mind, he finally 
brought her on to assent by reason to the 
existence of God, and then to the immor- 
tality of the soul. She listened intently; 
suddenly the whole truth appeared to flash 
upon her; and as she realized the happy 
change, tears, the first she had shed since 
Ada’s death, flooded her eyes. From that 
hour, she quickly recovered. 

In the meantime, Mr. Merton entered 
upon his retreat with a will, and the three 
days spent in retirement were to him the 


Ada Merton, 


171 


most precious of his life. On Sunday 
morning, he received with tender love and 
in all humility our blessed Lord. Long 
after the Mass was over, he still was praying, 
when a light touch upon the shoulder called 
him back to the world. It was Father 
Elliott, who motioned him to come outside. 
Following the priest, who was dressed in 
secular clothes, to the door, he saw a carriage 
with no — yes — it was old Bob himself for 
the driver. 

^^Why Bob,^^ he gasped. 

^^Lor’ lub you, massa.’’ — 

^^Jump in, my dear fellow — not a word 
now to man, woman or child, said the 
father, whose smihng face spoke volumes. 
^^Let the horses fly. Bob. And mind you, 
John, don^t ask me a single question.’^ 

Off rattled the coach ; Father Elliott threw 
himself back in his seat and smiled at Merton, 
who scrupulously mindful of his compan- 
ion’s monition asked no questions, but 
resigned himself to the broad field of con- 
jecture. In as short a time, almost, as it 
takes to narrate it, they pulled up before 
the convent, gained admittance, and seated 
themselves in the parlor. Mr. Merton was 


172 


Ada Merton, 


just beginning to collect his thoughts, when 
a lady entered the room, and with a cry of 
joy threw herself upon his bosom. It 
was his wife, needless to say ; her face still 
bearing lines of sorrow, but sorrow that had 
been chastened and refined. 

^^My dear, John; thanks to Grod, that 
our eyes have at length been opened.’^ 

Thank Grod,^^ echoed the husband with 
no less fervor. ^^Ada has indeed gained 
her prayers.’^ 

^^Yes, John, and though my heart is still 
mourning her loss ; yet if I had the power 
to call her back now, I would not do so.’^ 

^^Nor I, my dear. A few years more, 
and, please Glod, we shall meet her in 
Heaven.’’ 

* * * * ^ * ^ 

Six years have passed; and Mr. and Mrs. 
Merton, still young, still active, are happier 
than ever we knew them to be in the past. 
God has blessed them with another child, 
master Robin Merton, who, as Bob declares, 
‘^am a marble ob engine-annuity.” — Al- 
though a good boy, Robin is something of 
a contrast to Ada: he has a remarkable 
facility for creating minor disturbances; 


Ada Merton, 


173 


and after he has ^^worrited^^ the cook to 
death by stealing her preserves and pastries, 
and set Maggie running after him on ven- 
genance intent for mussing up everything/^ 
he makes his mammals lap a harbor of 
refuge, and asks: — 

say, mamma, Robin’s like sisser Ada, 
ain’t he?” This question being generally 
unequivocally negatived, Robin toddles off 
in great disgust, to effect new conquests. 

When, occasionally of a fine day, they 
take him out to CalvaryCemetery, and show 
him a little grave blossoming with roses, 
lilies and violets; and tell him what Ada 
had said of these flowers, he looks very 
serious, and says. 

^Toor sisser Ada! Bobby’s doin to be 
dood too; so’s he can do to heaven turn 
day, an’ see his little sisser.” 





















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